When We've Been There Ten Thousand Years
by Sirabella
Summary: WORK IN PROGRESS. Part 1: Minerva McGonagall has a secret, but there are two people she can't hide from. Can she let them both in before it's too late? Part 2: Trust starts to buckle under the weight of Voldemort's return. Who will not survive it?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the people, places or things in this story. That privilege belongs exclusively to the lovely J. K. Rowling, as I'm sure you're all aware.  
  
The staff room was completely silent except for the sound of a quill  
  
scratching its way along a two-foot piece of parchment. Minerva  
  
McGonagall sat in front of the fire, balancing the pile of essays on her knee.  
  
She hated desks; they were too rigid, and she loved to curl up on a sofa when  
  
she marked papers. It was a welcome respite from the uncompromising  
  
chair and square desk in the classroom. She smiled quietly to herself. The  
  
students were truly learning. She loved giving good marks, and this batch of  
  
papers was a noticeable improvement on the last. A shadow fell on the rug  
  
in front of her, and she sighed as a stiff form seated itself delicately in the  
  
farthest corner of the couch. "Snape," she acknowledged stiffly.  
  
"Professor," he responded icily, and the silence fell again. She turned back  
  
to the papers, but after a while the cold voice began again: "The Slytherins  
  
will need the Quidditch pitch tomorrow afternoon to prepare for the next  
  
match." Minerva looked up furiously. "I see," she ground out, "then would  
  
you mind informing me when the Gryffindors are supposed to practice?  
  
Should they conjure a second pitch out of thin air, perhaps?" "That's no  
  
concern of mine," he shot back loftily, "just like everything else a  
  
Gryffindor sees fit to do or not do." "Yes, well, if you need the practice so  
  
desperately, I'm sure I could oblige you," she said bitingly. An offended  
  
glare met this remark, and she allowed herself a small inward smile of  
  
victory. "You may keep your Quidditch reservation. Heaven knows I am  
  
not so cruel as to deny idiots the chance to save their sorry hides," he spat  
  
out, and she remained calm, telling herself that she was too close to victory  
  
to blow it now with a childish outburst. She merely smiled serenely at him,  
  
at which he turned smoothly on his heel and stalked off in an angry swirl of  
  
black robes. "I believe the score now is Minerva: 25, Severus: 12. I must  
  
say, my dear, I believe this time must be some sort of record." Minerva's  
  
cat-like smirk lengthened into a cheeky grin as she turned to face the  
  
twinkling half-moon glasses. "That's as close to running away as he's ever  
  
gotten," she remarked happily. A gleeful chuckle met her ears at this, and  
  
she jerked her head toward the sofa, moving stacks of papers to make room  
  
for him on the cushion next to her. "I would chide you for unprofessional  
  
conduct, Minerva, if I didn't enjoy these scenes so much. As long as the two  
  
of you show a united front before the students, you are welcome to scrap in  
  
private." "Thank you, sir," she laughed, drawing her hand to her forehead in  
  
a mock salute. As she lowered her hand, his gaze became more penetrating,  
  
and she felt nervousness flood her every pore. He couldn't tell, could he?  
  
She sometimes believed he could read minds, more often that he knew all  
  
that transpired within the Hogwarts grounds. But she wouldn't let him find  
  
out what was different about her, not if she had to curse him in the process.  
  
"What is it, Albus?" she asked shakily. Damn, why couldn't she keep the  
  
fear out of her voice? "Is there anything you wish to tell me, Minerva?" he  
  
asked suddenly, and her mouth went dry. No, she couldn't, but she might  
  
have no choice..... "No, there isn't," she said determinedly. She cringed as  
  
it came out rather loudly and defiantly; in her haste to defend her secret, she  
  
had become overenthusiastic. She wished desperately that she were a better  
  
liar. For the first time in her life, she wished Snape were around to help her.  
  
He was the best liar she had ever met in her life, and it served him extremely  
  
well. Not that that was a sparkling recommendation of his personality, but  
  
he came in useful every once in a while, as much as she despised him. But  
  
this was not about Snape. Albus was staring past her eyes, into her mind,  
  
and it was only a matter of time before he..... "I'm sorry, Albus, I'd love to  
  
stay and chat, but I'm meeting a student in my office in five minutes. I'll  
  
see you at dinner." She practically sprinted out of the room, missing the sad  
  
blue gaze as it followed her retreating form with a mixture of curiosity and  
  
deadly fear. 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Ok, I guess I need to write more before I can expect any reviews, so here goes.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the people, places or things in this story. That privilege belongs exclusively to the lovely J. K. Rowling, as I'm sure you're all aware.  
  
Minerva could barely see her plate. Her vision was spinning, nearly knocking her over in its centripetal enthusiasm. She had to get  
  
out of there, now. But how? She wanted to be unobtrusive, now and always to just slip away, but if she lurched across the Great Hall  
  
clutching her head, who wouldn't notice? On the other hand, who would care? She knew she had missed her chance, however, when her  
  
fork clattered horribly onto the stone floor. "Excuse me," she mumbled miserably, and feigning a gesture in the general direction of her  
  
fork, she walked quickly to the door and left the Hall. She had almost made it to the door of her chambers, she was almost home-free.....  
  
"Minerva." Damn. I thought no one can Apparate on the Hogwarts grounds, she speculated idly. "Talk to me. Let me in."  
  
"I'm tired," she said softly, almost inaudibly, but he caught the words before they slipped into silence. "I don't believe you," he said  
  
frankly, and the surprise of his bluntness in place of his usual vague humor made her spin around to face him, an action which  
  
she almost immediately regretted as her vision swam again. She staggered on her feet, and he nimbly slipped an arm around her waist  
  
to steady her as she sank to the floor, for lack of an easier place to go. "Come on," he groaned, pulling her fiercely to her feet  
  
again, "your rooms are right here. Say the password." "Albus.....," she breathed faintly. "Now!" he growled, his eyes flashing steel.  
  
"Lemon drop," she whispered. The doors grated open as Dumbledore fixed her with a comical stare of disbelief,  
  
all his anger born of desperation having evaporated in the thunderbolt of his shock. She stared back before letting out a strangled giggle  
  
at his dumbfounded expression, and soon they were both laughing uncontrollably. Somehow, they managed to reach an armchair  
  
in her living room, and he set her down, wiping his eyes and turning serious again, and at once, as if he had flipped a switch,  
  
the remnants of her laughter vanished and she turned away from him, pressing her damp face into the welcoming cushion.  
  
She could hear him making himself comfortable on the sofa opposite her, and she listened to the sound of his movements, wishing that  
  
he would leave her alone and hoping that he would stay. She lay perfectly still, trying to convince him that she had fallen asleep.  
  
He never moved, but she knew he was watching her, reluctant to force her back into their previous conversation but unwilling  
  
to leave it at that. She finally managed to structure her breaths to mimic sleep, and apparently he was fooled,  
  
because he let out a long sigh and stood, then moved to stand over her. He bent down and pressed a light kiss to the top of her head,  
  
and her heart gave a painful lurch as he whispered: "Whenever you're ready, Minerva" and left her chambers, shutting the door  
  
silently behind him. When she was sure he was gone, she burst into tears.  
  
To Minerva, the next morning was the same as every other. She looked with disgust at the shining surface of her mirror, considering  
  
her drawn cheeks and irritated eyes, until it told her to brush her hair and take a hike. She dressed, went down for breakfast,  
  
became the recipient of one of Snape's haughtiest freezing glares when she snatched the last puff pastry moments before his hand  
  
reached it, and finally, classes began. She was grateful that her Gryffindors were her first class. She didn't think she could deal  
  
with Malfoy smirking at her all morning, trying to catch her slipping up. And while there was Longbottom on the down side, who  
  
would inevitably end up breaking, vanishing or injuring something or someone, there were Potter, Weasley and Granger on  
  
the up side. She felt a warm affection for each of them, especially Potter. He would undoubtedly become the greatest wizard  
  
who ever lived, but he was humble as a dormouse, fiercely loyal and honest, feeling it his obligation to fight for everything he had,  
  
and everything he had was enclosed within the walls of Hogwarts. He frustrated her by justifying necessary rule-breaking  
  
and other generally unlawful behavior, and she knew he thought her hard and uncompromising, but she would lay down her life  
  
for him, and she firmly believed he would do the same, if necessary. Everything he knew to be on the side of the Light  
  
he would protect with his life, and she could only hope that the need for that sacrifice never arose.  
  
Poor boy.....he would suffer when she was gone, whether he knew it or not. But the pain could make him great; it could show him  
  
what a life was worth. She watched him as he entered the classroom, flanked as usual by Weasley and Granger, who were  
  
arguing over Quidditch. She smiled sadly at them; let them have their Quidditch while they can, she thought to herself,  
  
let them have their childhoods. They would be thankful later that they had lived them. Harry caught her expression and wondered  
  
what it meant. He gave her a quizzical look, and her usual stern mask instantly swept over her features. "Sit down, please,"  
  
she said sharply, levelling the square spectacles at them. She had let her guard down too much, Potter had seen.....well, more than  
  
she would have wished. And it was obvious that, like Albus, he was determined to find out the truth. His eyes never left her  
  
in the whole course of the morning, and she almost wished for Malfoy's arrogant countenance in his place. As soon as class  
  
was dismissed, he whispered something to his friends, shot one swift glance in her direction, and shot off down the hall. She knew  
  
exactly where he was going, and she was not looking forward to the aftermath of the discussion to follow in the chamber  
  
behind the stone gargoyle. 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: At this point, I still have space to respond to every reviewer :) Well, here I go:  
  
Alois: No, this isn't done, not by a long shot. I'm writing as I go, so what you see is what I got.  
  
Whisper: Thank you so much! I promise I will make it exciting :)  
  
Sir/Lady Lupin: You bet it'll be fluffy. But not right now. Fluffiness will abound when everything else is straightened out.  
  
Kala: So many questions! I guess that means I'm on the right track. Minerva's secret will not be fully revealed for a while yet; it's my only source of suspense :) But you get a little bit of an answer in this chapter. No, she isn't related to Harry; their bond isn't by blood, but you will find out more about that later. Her headache was only an indication of her problem; it has nothing to do with a scar or anything like that.  
  
Ilfje: Thank you so much for reading!  
  
HPluvva: I'm glad that amused you. I throw little jokes into things I write hoping people will notice :)  
  
One more thing: this chapter doesn't really stand alone, it's too short, but it seemed complete in itself, so I decided to post the other part separately. But this also means the fourth chapter will follow very, very shortly. Ok, on with the show.....  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the people, places or things in this story. That privilege belongs exclusively to the lovely J. K. Rowling, as I'm sure you're all aware.  
  
  
  
Minerva sat at her office window, watching the golden rays of light on the window pane deepen into crimson. Each sunset was a stroke  
  
on the tally of her life, but the bell that would toll for her had not been forged yet, and the beauty of nature, essentially the peaceful  
  
coexistence of life and death, forbade her to look away. She felt summoned, and she would have gone if it had been her time.  
  
This was how she had lived it thousands of times in her dreams, both wakeful and lost in slumber, both behind the glass  
  
and before it. She was like a relative with an invitation who is not really expected to show up. She suddenly felt alone  
  
when the knock came, but she was not surprised to see the hesitant, determined green eyes surface from behind the looming  
  
oak door. She was sure that his talk with Albus had contributed very little to the further enlightenment of either, but she knew  
  
it had been productive in as much as it had strengthened the resolve of both, and she knew there could be no resistance.  
  
"Come in, Potter," she said softly, so weakly that he barely heard the words behind the breath. "I'm sorry to bother you, Professor.....,"  
  
he began feebly. She fixed her eyes to his and sent him what in any other woman would have been a sweet smile but in her  
  
was unaccountably bitter. "Don't concern yourself with formalities like that right now. You're in my private chambers at sunset,  
  
not in the classroom, and I don't look much like your Professor now. Do I?" The boy shook his head truthfully. In point of fact,  
  
he scarcely recognized the slight, dour woman by the window as Professor McGonagall. She was smaller, somehow;  
  
her presence had left her. And then his eyes widened. Hers was the body of defeat. He burned with curiosity to know what was  
  
hurting her, but he didn't dare ask. What if she threw him out? He would never get this close to the truth again, never. He would have  
  
to be very careful. "You might as well sit down, Potter," she whispered, turning her attention back to the wings of vermilion  
  
scraping the evening sky. "Thank you," he answered after a few moments, settling down in the scarlet armchair opposite hers.  
  
They sat still for hours, seemingly, until Harry, knowing he should not be the first to speak but unable to help himself, asked quietly:  
  
"Why did you let me in?" "What?" She turned from the window in her confusion, and he took advantage of the fleeting eye contact  
  
to continue. "If hiding was so important to you, why did you let me in?" "Hiding, Potter?" she asked wistfully. "If only it were that simple.  
  
You're a child; real fear hasn't touched you yet. It should have, after all that you've seen, but it hasn't. Nothing can defeat you, Potter.  
  
That's why you're our hope, the best one we could have wished for. But pain..... Pain is another story altogether. You can't know  
  
true, all-consuming pain until your time comes. Mine is drawing nearer, lad, nearer with every passing day, but it's only today  
  
that I realize there is no place so deep or so secluded that pain can't find me if I try to conceal myself there." Harry listened eagerly,  
  
but the driving force behind his actions, curiosity, was being overtaken and destroyed with every word she uttered. She was not an animal  
  
caged for purposes of observation. She was a human being, and he realized, with an electric jolt of sadness and sympathy that echoed  
  
and reverberated back and forth along his nerve endings, how very strong she was. And she was not long for this world.....  
  
it was an unthinkable contradiction, and it made the room swim with unreality. He grabbed her hand frantically, as if he were  
  
afraid she would slip away in that moment. "Are you saying that's it?" He felt the lame question hover in the air between them,  
  
and he felt ashamed, but she laughed, as if it were a joke she had heard before. "If you mean to ask if there's a cure, the answer is:  
  
not that I know of. And if you want to know what is killing me, you'll have to come again another time," she finished hurriedly,  
  
so much so that he would have thought Professor McGonagall had manifested herself again, but for the almost imperceptible  
  
squeeze of her hand in his. They sat in silence again, drinking in the darkness, until the clock struck eleven. "You should  
  
get some sleep, my lad, unless you want to sleepwalk through your classes tomorrow. And I for one will not allow it," she added with  
  
a sly smile, the first genuine one he had ever seen on her face. A rush of joy poured through him that he had not even known  
  
was connected to her; he for one would not mourn a beating heart, air- filled lungs or warm, comforting skin. She deserved more tribute  
  
than that, more respect. "Goodnight, Professor," he declared firmly, becoming a boy once more and awkwardly dropping her hand  
  
on the armrest of her chair. "Sweet dreams," she whispered to the carpet, and Harry nodded, then turned for the door. "Potter."  
  
"Yes?" he answered. "You may tell Professor Dumbledore that his little schemes have no effect on me whatsoever."  
  
Harry grinned sagely. "Whatever you say, Professor," he replied, and left her alone in the twilight. 


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Well, more answers here for reviewers.  
  
Lizella: I'm glad you're wondering. It means I'm doing something worthwhile.  
  
Kala: Another colorful review :) Thanks so much for reading!  
  
demonchilde: No, not brain cancer. It's not as black-and-white as that.  
  
Whisper: Oh, boy. Where do I start? She's not dying from anything muggle; in fact, quite the opposite. Sorry if that doesn't help, it's all I'm willing to give away at this point. Your guess about her past is closer to the mark, although still not quite accurate. Thank you for the suggestion about the dialogue; I've tried to follow it, and you're right, it does clear things up a bit. The paragraphing was my fault. I thought double-spaced would be easier to read, but I suppose I should stick to bits of paragraphs like everyone else. Well, I've done that in this chapter, too. I am very new at this; this is my first fanfic, so if those are the only troubles I'm having, hallelujah.  
  
HPluvva: I think this chapter answers your fluffiness question :) But to answer it right now, yes, fluffy with Dumbledore. I have read several stories with a Snape/McGonagall pairing, and I've been unable to take any of them seriously, and that's not what I want for this fic. Snape's the equivalent in this story of the clown in Hamlet, the comic relief. Let's face it, this story can use some. Which brings me to my next point:  
  
This is another rather depressing chapter. Sorry. But interesting and worth reading, I hope. So please hang in there. Snape will be back, if only for the amount of time it takes to slip on a banana peel :)  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the people, places or things in this story. That privilege belongs exclusively to the lovely J. K. Rowling, as I'm sure you're all aware.  
  
  
  
A tremor ran through her body as one foot after another carried her up the moving staircase. There was only one thing she could salvage out of this, and only one way to do it. Her dignity, the vision that teachers and students alike perceived when they looked at her, the vision of an unyielding, resourceful leader: it was all there was left to her. She could step away now, gracefully, and deteriorate far away from eyes that would grow dim with her passing. She had told Harry the truth, as much as he needed, anyhow, and he would let her go. Not without speaking his mind, perhaps, but he would let her go. That was what mattered.  
  
But Albus..... he would fight her. Not with words, not with anything so easy to combat. He would plead with her by wishing silently for her compliance, and she would be sorely tempted to give in, even to die in his arms, perhaps. But she could not be so weak. She would prefer taking her own life to dying slowly before his eyes. Slipping away from him while he watched her helplessly and not even being able to grasp his hand, to hold to what was so dearly familiar..... it was unthinkable, and she would prevent it if it cost her her strength. She knocked, but she knew as her knuckles rapped the wood that she should simply enter. This was not a social call, it was business, and urgent at that.  
  
"Come in."  
  
"Professor Dumbledore," she began, convinced that he had known it was her, since he was standing at the window, his back to her. "I....."  
  
"You're leaving," he finished stoically, "and you've come.....why, for my permission?"  
  
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, the crisp edge to her voice splintering a little at the cruel words he had covered in a coat of frightening neutrality.  
  
"That was going to be my question," he answered quickly, never missing a beat, but keeping his voice steady and his face to the glass.  
  
"You know why. The boy has told you, and we both know this is how it should be."  
  
"It's very interesting, isn't it," he remarked almost whimsically, turning now to pierce her with the usually jaunty spectacles, "that the qualities for which I hired you, the very ones that make you such a valuable asset to me as a professor, are the ones that betray you now, when you're afraid and have great need of them."  
  
"What do you mean?" When he answered, she almost wished she hadn't asked.  
  
"Your love of teaching by example, and your penchant for keeping faith in your own judgment when all else fails. You would like to show me that if you can walk away now, seemingly without regret, that I and Harry and the other pieces of your life strewn all over this school can do the same. You judged it best that Harry tell me the truth, in case your emotional strength failed you. When does it, Minerva? When do you give up trying to protect yourself by projecting your feelings and needs onto others?"  
  
"Is *that* what I've been doing?" She was pushing at sarcasm, willing it to enter her tone, but the hurt swept it away. He paled and looked away again, seeing her meaning in the pained toss of her head and the newborn tears struggling to reach her cheeks.  
  
"That isn't what I meant and you know it," he answered with a semblance of firmness that amazed her.  
  
"Do I?" She knew she was being horribly cruel, and she didn't expect him to forgive her; she only wanted him to let her go.  
  
"Yes, for heaven's sake. Do you think I'd do all of this if I didn't care?" He suddenly spun around and strode across the carpet to stand in front of her, placing a hand on each of her shoulders. "You really thought I would simply sign your resignation, wish you well and pack you off on the next train?"  
  
"No," she stammered, unable to restrain the tears now, "but that's what I need you to do."  
  
"I can't," he protested gently, "not until you understand, and possibly not even then. Your spirit is embedded in the fabric of life here at the school. It's a very powerful spell, more so than the magical prowess of any living witch or wizard..... even you," he added playfully, coaxing a small smile out of her. It seemed to give him the courage to continue. "Do you have any idea how large and jagged a hole you would leave behind if you ripped yourself away?"  
  
"But.....but if I died here, wouldn't it have the same effect?"  
  
He flinched noticeably at the word "died," but answered her question glibly enough. "No. The school's tapestry of souls recognizes death as the natural sequel to life. It would simply absorb it as it does now."  
  
"Well..... but others have left. Remus, two years ago....."  
  
"He had only just arrived, Minerva. And even he, as much as the students loved him, did not belong here as you do."  
  
"What about Salazar Slytherin?"  
  
"And what happened to him? Just think about what *his* contribution to Hogwarts turned out to be. I hardly think he serves as a practicable example to prove your point, my dear."  
  
"So I can't leave because a spell will destroy me if I go? I hardly see how that's a step down from my current situation."  
  
"And the school?"  
  
"If it can withstand the best-laid plans of the Dark Lord, three times, I might add, it can get over my absence."  
  
He let her go and crossed to the desk, resting his hands in defeat on its smooth surface. "And what of those who cannot?" he whispered. "Would you doom them to the knowledge of your suffering, but the inability to ease it in any way, even only in imagination?"  
  
This was her chance. It was so cruel that she almost passed it by, and hated herself immediately for not doing so. "No one cares for me as much as that," she answered him pointedly, grateful beyond conception that his back was to her, hiding from him her tears, her anguish and her remorse. "No one has the right to ask that of me."  
  
There was a horrible, ghostly silence. It was unbroken by so much as a breath until his voice drifted back to her, tight and unnatural: "Go, then. I see you are not to be swayed. It was only to be expected, I suppose." He pulled himself up, swiftly drew a quill over a slip of parchment and waved it over his shoulder in her direction. She caught it and read it over, and after nodding her satisfaction, put it in her pocket and headed for the door. Her hand was on the knob when she heard her name again. "Minerva." She paused, unmoving on the threshold, and listened quakingly. "Don't look back." 


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: One thing first before I get down to 'splainin' :) The rate at which I'm currently posting chapters is manifestly absurd. I am a college student, for God's sake. But I am on Fall Break right now and am ahead in my homework, so I have the time. Just don't get used to it :)  
  
Ok, answers to reviews:  
  
skullfarmer: Thank you muchly! And no, the end will not be sad. Damn, I should not have said that. Oh, well, a hopeless romantic like me..... I said fluffy, didn't I?  
  
Xela: Thanks, much appreciated :)  
  
Alois: Thanks so much!  
  
Kala: Yes, poor Dumbledore. Bad Minerva. But just stay tuned. As to where she'll go, just read on. And no, I won't tell what's wrong with her, at least not yet.  
  
HPluvva: What did he mean? Well, he was just reminding her what she had done. She wanted a clean break, and he was making sure she knew what that meant. "Don't look back" means that he hopes she hasn't done something she'll regret later. And the title. Well, it's a line from the last verse of "Amazing Grace," and it goes like this: "When we've been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun/ We've no less days to sing God's praise then when we first begun." In this case it's a metaphor for the relationship between Albus and Minerva. It's been stuck in the same place for what feels like ten thousand years because they think they have all the time in the world. They both know how the other feels, but they're not teenagers, and they realize that they have other responsibilities that take priority; they're content with the way things are now. I suppose I could have made them fall in love during the story, but somehow I don't see either of them, especially Dumbledore, suddenly falling for someone they've known and worked with for years.  
  
Whisper: He isn't convinced by what she said; he knows she's lying, but the fact that she said it is what subdues him. He knows she knows how he feels, and she's throwing it aside, not only saying that it doesn't matter, but that it doesn't even exist, simply to make it a tiny bit easier for her to leave. He was testing how far she'd go, and once he got his answer, he saw how useless it would be to say anything more. He was hurt, and he had nothing left to say that would rival what she did; he would have been cheapening his feelings for her if he'd tried to contradict her. About the spell: sheesh, that's a good point. I hadn't thought of that. Well, I'll try to pick up the pieces in this chapter. The part about the spell destroying her is supposed to be vague..... "destruction" can mean a lot of things: death, insanity, emotional ruin, or turning to evil, to name just a few. In this case, it could mean any or all of the above, not in that order, of course :) And I don't mind the length of your reviews, in fact, constructive criticism is the best thing. "More More More" (as you put it) is nice, but it's also nice to have a bit more to go on. Thanks a bunch!  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the people, places or things in this story. That privilege belongs exclusively to the lovely J. K. Rowling, as I'm sure you're all aware.  
  
  
  
Minerva sat in the train, fidgeting in her seat. She was too weak now to Apparate, but this hardly seemed a better alternative. It was slow, irritatingly loud and..... it contained Severus Snape. What the hell? What was he doing here? She decided to ignore him and extricated a worn, dog-eared spellbook from her bag. She was determined to find that spell Albus had mentioned and drown her emotions in her intellectual curiosity. She found he was right about her, but what kind of school would be charmed to trap people, to refuse to let them choose their lives for themselves? And then she read the fine print. The spell only bound you to the school if you had chosen it first, if it was your world. She was frozen for a moment in fear for Harry; the school was his world-- what would it do when he graduated? When her racing heart had calmed itself again, she realized that Harry was different. The spell must know what his work would be, how necessary it would become for him to leave in order to fight the school's battles for it. Surely the spell would not harm its champion? Worrying about Harry was like worrying about a boulder being hurt by the waves crashing against it.  
  
She closed the book briefly and saw the shadow shift in the corner. Ignoring him seemed to work well; he assumed she hadn't seen him in the blackness at the back of the compartment, but he had forgotten her cat's sense of smell. Something she was now regretting exercising in his direction. She shuffled around in her mind, desperately looking for something to divert her attention. Her subconscious, ever traitorous, churned up the image of Albus Dumbledore as she had last seen him, his back bent with the effort of hiding the wounds her words had caused him. Her eyes chimed in with their acquiescence, shooting angry tears down her cheeks. She wiped them away quickly, furious that she had allowed herself the luxury of weeping twice in one day, especially when both times had been outside the privacy of her chambers. She hadn't even cried when Harry had come to see her, although she had felt tears threatening more than once in the course of that evening.  
  
She began to pass the time by shooting a poisonous hatred as sharp as the points of arrows at herself, but she could not smother a crashing, fiery anger, anger at him for putting her in that position, for making her hurt him. If he had only given in before..... before she had done *that*. But what did it matter now? She would die, he would live. That was the way she would have preferred it, anyhow. For a long time, she had been dreading the day he would leave her, dreading the sight of his still form without an ounce of breath left in it. And she would never have to face it. For one moment after she had discovered her fate, in the second before the pain and the grief set in, she was blissfully happy in the knowledge that in her eyes he would always remain as he truly was. *I don't deserve him,* she thought. *I'm so selfish. I can't conceive why anyone should care for me.* She had just managed to erase the flow of self-disgust and sorrow from her eyes and posture when one shadow rose out of the dusk in the far corner and sat down in front of her, scowling out at the countryside.  
  
"What *are* you doing here?" she asked petulantly.  
  
"Orders from Dumbledore."  
  
"He sent you to *spy* on me?"  
  
Snape snorted in disbelief. "One for two, Professor. Amazing accuracy. Whether you choose to believe it or not, I have more important people to spy on than snivelling women."  
  
Minerva bristled, broiling anger rushing through her at having been seen in tears by this odious man. "Then why are you wasting your time on this chattering collection of bolts? You must have a very interesting travel agenda stashed somewhere that *doesn't* give any mention of harassing innocent, curious fellow travellers."  
  
"Curiosity killed the cat," he replied smoothly, and so coldly that she made a move to throw him out the window, but thought better of it. After all, if Albus learned that she had jeopardized the life of his most valuable spy, she would have a lot of explaining to do, and she didn't fancy explaining her murderous instincts any more than she had her reasons for leaving. "Anyhow, it's difficult to travel incognito when you suddenly appear out of thin air under somebody's nose."  
  
"I wouldn't advise you to spend any time directly under someone's nose," she retorted swiftly, "unless you want to get thrown in with the morning dustbin collection."  
  
"And I'd advise you to keep your whiskers out of business that doesn't concern you. As I understand it, that is what you have chosen to do in any case," he taunted, "so why not include me in the wonderful little club of people you are planning to ignore?"  
  
Minerva's head swivelled swiftly around to face him. Was it possible that he was trying to goad her into changing her mind? Ridiculous. She could believe this of Hagrid, or perhaps of Remus Lupin, but not Snape. He would be overjoyed to be rid of her..... but the fact remained that he had not stayed lurking in his corner; he had joined her and accepted all of the insults she would throw at him before they came. She had a sudden, wild urge to burst out laughing; the thought of Snape changing her mind where Albus had failed was so absurd. But then, *Snape* was nothing to her, whereas Albus.....  
  
"Ah, it seems you've already begun," he added in a horribly superior tone as he noticed that she had become lost in her thoughts. "Good day, Professor," he said icily.  
  
"Don't trip over your ego on the way out," she managed before he was gone and she was able to release the giggles that had been mounting up dangerously through the tail-end of their conversation. Was the universe so unholy, so perverse as to make Snape out to be her rescuer, her hero who would save her from herself? He had certainly made her laugh when she had never felt less like laughing in all the years of her life; not deliberately, but there it was.  
  
She suddenly felt what a goose she had made of herself and realized very acutely the insignificance of her own pain. Snape was a greasy ball of slime, but he was willing to risk everything he was for what was right. She felt ashamed, and her shame doubled overwhelmingly as she remembered Albus' despair and Harry's concern. She was easing her own burden, true, but she was increasing theirs. No matter what she had said to Albus, she knew she had lied, and she would be extremely fortunate if he didn't slam the doors of Hogwarts in her face. But for the chance to pull the sting out of her last detestable words to him, to see joy in his face once more and to know that she had brought it there with the gift of her last precious moments of life..... she would risk it. 


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Up goes the next chapter.....I hope you all know that I don't really have the time for this right now, but I am doing it because I know what it's like to be waiting for the next chapter of a story I'm reading and be pissed off because it isn't there. Some people who shall remain nameless *cough* MiniNerva *cough* Catherine E. Grant *cough* have begun stories I really liked and left them perpetually unfinished. Not cool. So, answers to reviewers.....  
  
Kala: No problemo. Thanks ever so for reading!  
  
HPluvva: What do YOU think? Many people think that stories mean what the author wants them to mean. Only partially true. A lot, not just beauty, but truth also, is in the eye of the beholder. If you think Snape was checking up on her, then he was, and if not, then not. Sorry to be such a pain, but I want you to read between the lines and come to your own conclusions.  
  
Xela: Nice to hear you are so interested. Sorry to leave you hanging; it didn't seem to me like a cliffhanger, but sorry anyway. But here you go.  
  
Lizella: What do you mean by "own section for McGonagall?" Do you mean her own compartment in the train? Or the fact that fanfiction.net hasn't got her as a character in the drop-down menu? Either way I agree with you; poor Minerva :) But don't feel too sorry for her yet; she's got a big hole to climb out of, but she dug it herself.  
  
Tea: Thanky, thanky. Much obliged.  
  
Alchemine: Thank you so much! That's a big compliment coming from you, since I am a big fan of your stories. You might not believe this, but the sunset metaphor was an accident :) I am so dumb I throw in important imagery without realizing it. The sunset just seemed like a thought- inducing setting. See what I mean about readers finding half the meaning?  
  
Alois: Thanks for the suggestion. I think you might be right, but am not ready to admit it at this time :) I like punching-bag Snape. Maybe later on I'll give him a personality. After all, he's taken his first step already, and that's half the battle :)  
  
VoyICJ: Thanks muchly. Stay tuned for an important announcement.....  
  
  
  
.....here. I am revealing the cause of Minerva's death in this chapter. I've decided it's really not exciting enough to merit all this suspense :) I also have to warn you, this chapter is a little sappy. Although I think you've already figured out that this isn't an action-packed fic. :) And A- WAAAAYY we go.....  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the people, places or things in this story. That privilege belongs exclusively to the lovely J. K. Rowling, as I'm sure you're all aware.  
  
  
  
A sense of deja-vu almost swept over Minerva as she strode hesitantly up the moving staircase. She was looking forward to this discussion even less than she had been the last one at the top of these stairs, if that were possible. She hated swallowing her pride, and she hated it even more when, as now, it intertwined with guilt to form a writhing mass of nervousness in her abdomen. Why didn't she just throw herself off the Astronomy Tower and be done with it? She stood for a long time behind his door, resting her flushed forehead against the cool oak. She tried frantically to scrape together all the fleeting shreds of her courage-- she was a Gryffindor after all. Where was it? Finally she raised her hand and knocked softly. His muffled "Come in" almost pushed her to her knees, but she pulled herself up and opened the door, not daring to assume the right to walk inside. He was seated wearily behind his desk, and as his eyes locked with hers, she searched them frantically for anger, contempt, pain, anything to punish her for what she had done. The pain was there, certainly, but it was not reproachful, it was hopeful, and the rest was only surprise. She could not speak, and was grateful that he did.  
  
"You've come back," he said finally, and she nodded cautiously. He seemed to realize she was still afraid and with a sigh heaved himself out of his chair, coming to stand directly in front of her, paralyzing her with his proximity. "You didn't have to; I would have understood."  
  
"But you wouldn't have forgiven me," she answered sadly, "and you would have been perfectly right. I can never run from you for long," she added philosophically.  
  
His eyes flamed at this, and taking her hand in his, he led her to a chair, placed her in it, conjured her a cup of tea, and took a seat in the chair opposite hers. This act completed the atmosphere of confession she had been dreading; it was a sweet and painful reminder of the other night when Harry had come to see her and drawn her feelings out of her. Her hand trembled on her teacup at the memory, and this drew a concerned look from Albus. She reassured him silently that she was fine, and as she watched the momentary tension fade from his back, his shoulders and then his jawline, she reflected, not without pride, that she owned the possibility of granting him his dearest happiness. It was no more power than he held over her, but it was dizzying, and she fought to keep her voice level as she almost pleaded with him. "Please ask me. It is, after all, what I've come rushing back to tell you."  
  
He watched her face closely for a few moments, then smiled slightly. "As you wish, my dear. What, then, was so frightening to you in the prospect of remaining here that you....." He stumbled then, unsure how to speak the words without causing her more pain than she could ever deserve.  
  
"Went too far?" she asked miserably. He nodded slowly, and when her gaze dropped to the teacup in her lap, he reached out a long hand and tipped her chin up so that their faces and eyes were level.  
  
"Yes, too far. So far that I knew you were only protecting yourself, and that your fear spoke those words," he said gently, "not you. Your anger and your fear betrayed you, Minerva; let them go, and believe that I would never do as they have."  
  
Tears pooled on his fingers at these words, and he wiped them away softly as a river of words spilled out of her mouth. "I do believe that, and I knew it, but it was not strong enough for everything I was thinking and feeling. I felt too alone. Please understand."  
  
"I'd give anything right now to do just that," he remarked with a slight return of the usual twinkle that she loved so much. He continued more soberly, stroking her cheek to calm her. "But I must know your reasons, Minerva, no matter how painful or farfetched they might seem to you now."  
  
Taking his hand from her face and holding it tightly in her own, she stared deeply into his eyes, gathering the trust and the peace she found there and projecting them back at him. "I was a coward," she stated simply. "I thought dying alone would be easier than saying goodbye."  
  
"It might be," he said after a short silence had run its course following her words.  
  
"Until the last moment, yes," she conceded. "Until the last moment before my eyes faded from this world, I would triumph in the knowledge of having spared us both unnecessary pain. But in the moment of my death, I would need you, cry out for you, and you wouldn't be there." She stopped as tears choked her voice in her throat, imagining the terrible scene. Judging from the pain in his expression and the moist wavering that had filled his eyes, he was doing the same. "Anyhow," she continued in a lighter tone, determined to give Albus the opportunity to recover his self- possession, "I can't think about what is easier. Having Snape kick the sense back into me made me realize it's too selfish, even for me. He's horrible, cruel and not a little infuriating, but he's braver than I'll ever be," she admitted tentatively.  
  
"You came back," he contradicted her. She smiled slightly.  
  
"You're a bit less frightening than the Dark Lord, Albus. At least I know when *you* try to string me up by my toes, the option of blasting your sock drawer to smithereens always remains to me as a means of suitable revenge."  
  
"You wouldn't," he gasped with a very good imitation of a dramatically injured air. "I forgive you any assault upon my own person, but you will spare my socks or suffer the consequences." Minerva giggled, but they both turned serious again very quickly, and he added softly: "It is much more difficult to face the wrath, real or imagined, of a friend than that of an enemy. I know how much it cost you to admit you were wrong and face me again, and I am more grateful than you can imagine." She blushed, and he smiled at her confusion, then gently kissed her scarlet cheek. "You thought I'd be angry," he said earnestly. "Why?"  
  
"Because I left without even giving you a chance to save me," she said shamefacedly. "I hurt you terribly and I asked you to blindly accept the inevitability of my death without proving it to you."  
  
"And you wish to prove it to me now," he finished flatly, his tone betraying the fear rising steadily up on a tide under his words.  
  
For answer, she pulled in a clear, shuddering breath and said: "It's a curse, Albus. A family curse. 'The first born shall be the first to die.' Years ago, when I was a little girl," she continued, speaking over his inarticulate protest, "Grindelwald was rising to power. He knew my father was working against him. Many were, but our cellar was the birthplace of an infinite number of potions, spells and other magical devices that were of invaluable aid to the Light side. My father worked in secret, but you know as well as I do that secrets were cheaply bought and sold in those days. Some Dark wizard must have bargained for information, found out about his work and where he lived and brought the news to his master. It was one night in March, when I was five years old, that he paid us a visit." She swallowed and paused, recalling the horror that had possessed them all, and only remembered to continue when Albus squeezed the icy hand still twined around his own.  
  
"My father wasn't helpless. He hid all of us very effectively with his own invisibility spells and told us to hide ourselves the Muggle way as well, just in case. I remember my sister Eloise and I pressed our heads together to watch him fight for his life through the keyhole in the bedroom wardrobe." She couldn't quite hold back the tears as she said: "He wouldn't hide. He insisted that someone had to stand up and tell Grindelwald where he got off." She looked at the floor and added shyly: "I'll always be thankful to you, Albus, for giving that gift to my father's memory."  
  
"Many have said that it was my greatest achievement," he answered wonderingly, "but it is only now that I believe them." There was a silence of communication for a few moments before Minerva took up her story again.  
  
"You would have thought that seeing our father tossed limply to the ground like a rag doll would have made my sister and me run out of hiding or cry out in terror. But we were frozen; we had never seen death before, and it was staring us in the face. We could not process our father's absence, even while his body lay pressed into the carpet 3 feet away. After that," she said quickly, "Grindelwald grew angry. His confidence had fled. He could find not one other human being in the house, although there were five of us holding our breaths and trying to make ourselves as small as possible. He screamed out in a fury what we all, including him, I'm sure, thought were idle words of desperation: 'This house shall be a house of wretchedness and misery from this day,' he yelled. 'Mark your children well, for the first born shall be the first to die.' After he had gone, we all came out shaking, and Mother, after checking me over thoroughly, forgot his words and Father became the center of attention. Th-that's all the information that is relevant to the present situation," she finished in a rush.  
  
"Are you sure?" he asked gently. "I have three very relevant questions, none of which you must answer, of course. One: What is it that turned an angry cry of defeat into a deadly magical entity? Two: Why is it that you've lived this long? Why is the curse only taking hold now? And three, how did you ever realize what was happening?"  
  
"I don't know the answer to that first question, Albus," she whispered faintly. "If I did, perhaps we could find a way of turning it back. As to why the curse is killing me now; well, Eloise works for the Ministry, and about a week ago, she and her scouting group happened upon a group of Death Eaters unexpectedly. Funny, isn't it," she mused, "that Cornelius Fudge only gets good work done when he's trying not to." Albus smiled and urged her to continue. "She was knocked off balance by the edge of a curse aimed at someone else. It didn't kill her directly; she's in St. Mungo's right now, with about a week and a half left to live."  
  
"And if one of your siblings dies, you must needs die first in order to fulfill the curse," he finished dismally.  
  
"Yes. It won't take Eloise until I'm dead. Which is another reason I wish we could save my life. If I can stay alive somehow, even if we simply drive the curse away instead of dispelling it, that will keep Eloise alive as well, possibly long enough for her curse to run its course and leave her health in salvageable condition."  
  
Albus smiled at her suddenly optimistic outlook. "This sounds more like you," he said cheerfully, brushing a black lock back from her face that had tumbled into her eyes during her story. His voice grew soft, and he added: "I'm sure Harry would love to help us."  
  
Her eyes swung up to meet his with the brightness of stars, and it took some doing for him to look away and bring both of them to their feet. "Thank you, Albus," she murmured impulsively as she headed for the door.  
  
"Thank *you*, my dear," he answered gallantly, then more quietly as she closed the door behind her: "Thank you." 


	7. Chapter 7

Notes to reviewers:  
  
Xela: Whatever you say. Hold your horses, please! :) As I said, I'm a college student and am pretty busy. This is more like the posting pace I had in mind. I am, however, immeasureably grateful that you like my story so much. XOXOXO  
  
HPluvva: I'm glad you're satisfied. Thanks for reading!  
  
Kala: I have no intention of abandoning this story until it's finished, don't worry.  
  
Lizella: Ok, gotcha :) You have your Snape and I'll have my Dumbledore, and we'll both be happy.  
  
VoyICJ: Thank you thank you!!! I feel special.  
  
Anonymous reviewer: Thanks so much! And cheers to you for being able to use the word "smashing" in a sentence (in that context). I love it so much, but with my flat American accent, it would sound silly :)  
  
And, of course, Huffy darling, masquerading as "Bertie": So glad you read it. And liked it. Can't hardly wait for the NH CoS trip!!  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the people, places or things in this story. That privilege belongs exclusively to the lovely J. K. Rowling, as I'm sure you're all aware.  
  
  
  
Harry sat on the library floor, hurriedly snatching book after book from the shelf, almost upending the entire bookcase on his own head, until suddenly a restraining arm, resembling steel in its strength and reluctance to yield, clamped his arm to his side.  
  
"Be careful, Potter," she scolded. "This is about saving my life, not ending yours."  
  
"Sorry, Professor," he answered in a small, apologetic voice. "I wasn't paying attention."  
  
"I can see that," she answered crisply, and Harry felt admonished. If he had looked into her face, he would have seen something that was not anger tinting the square spectacles, but the consciousness of failure was stinging his brain and he kept his eyes on the brown fibers rising up around his sneakers. "Have you found anything?" she whispered in a tone that Harry would have labelled as eager if it had come from anyone else.  
  
"No," he responded bitterly, "and I've searched the whole section on curses. There just isn't anything," he almost shouted, and when the hard, uncompromising hand landed softly on his shoulder and squeezed it, he wondered whether it was to comfort or quiet him. Doubt made him wriggle out of the touch, and Professor McGonagall's voice was dry and businesslike again when she next spoke.  
  
"Well, keep looking," she instructed him. "Professor Dumbledore and I are searching our own private libraries, and there is a chance one of us will find something. One thing more: although I'm sure Miss Granger would be delighted to spend extra time in the library, please don't inform her of..... all this. The poor girl has enough on her plate, especially as she has chosen to begin studying for the O.W.L.s six months in advance." Jealousy of Hermione had flared up scorchingly in Harry's throat at the pride lacing Professor McGonagall's tone, but it faded into wonder when he realized her remark was not completely serious. She was teasing, but she did not expect him to realize it. Two could play at this game.  
  
"Yes, well, being the teacher's pet can put ideas in your head. Hermione just aims to please."  
  
"I expect nothing less," she replied smoothly. Then, without warning, she added: "I wish she were more like you."  
  
Harry couldn't speak, but somehow the word "Why?" escaped his air-locked chest.  
  
"She reminds me of myself at her age," she replied simply. "The pursuit of all the knowledge in the world is a very lonely one."  
  
"You've got another thing in common," he answered quietly. "You've both got me." He scrambled to his feet in time for her outstretched hand to fold neatly into his, although the motherly effect of the gesture was dampened when it brought his head up to tower two inches over her own.  
  
"You're too tall, Harry," she managed to say through the tension spanning every line of her face. Harry knew she was trying not to cry, so he allowed her to change the subject. He privately acknowledged her shift from his last to his first name and wondered at it, but let her continue. "You can't imagine how that haunts me. Every day you grow, and I grow a bit more afraid..... it's not fair. It's not fair that your every step towards adulthood is a step closer to.....him," she finished in a whisper, dropping his hand and covering her face with her own. Harry politely looked away when her sobs burst from her; he was grateful it was the Christmas holidays, when it was unlikely anyone would come upon them and see her with her self-control in shards at her feet. He couldn't pretend to ignore her for long. Besides, he thought wryly, she left her dignity at the door, as it were, coming to see me like this, to check on me; definitely not in the job description.  
  
"Please try not to worry about me," he begged as her tears slowed. "I'll be ready when that day comes. I have no choice; I'm the Boy Who Lived, remember?"  
  
"You know, Harry," she remarked as though she had not heard him, "after the incident with the Stone at the end of your first year, I've dreaded the end of every school year. The next year, the Chamber of Secrets..... I didn't know whether that was your blood or....." She swallowed desperately and carried on. "But the Tournament..... I could see how pale and cold Diggory was..... but I couldn't see your face, only how transparent your hands looked. I didn't know what had happened, only that if he was dead, then maybe you..... I wanted every magical torture in existence visited upon that man," she added with a rueful, trembling smile, and Harry returned it, remembering her temper tantrum after the accident with the Dementor, followed by the Minister's lackadaisical attitude. "He got off far too easily."  
  
"And then the Minister denied Voldemort's return," Harry prodded almost reluctantly. He was hating every minute that she tortured herself this way, but he knew if he stopped this line of conversation, she would continue it, alone, in her mind.  
  
She flinched at the name, but ignored it, ceding him the right to say it. "I hate him," she said emphatically. "He wants to be your friend when you need an authority figure, someone to sign forms and make you look like his prodigy, but when your future and the futures of all the people who matter to you are at stake, he panics and hides in ignorance. He's a fraud, and if you aren't careful, Harry, he could be the death of you. Promise me. Promise that when I'm gone, you will only trust him as far as you can throw him, and that goes for everyone who sees nothing more than the scar on your forehead when they look at you. Promise, now."  
  
"On my honor," said Harry gravely. "But you have to promise not to talk like that."  
  
"How?" she asked, genuinely puzzled.  
  
"Like an old lady making out her will. Like you're already dead."  
  
"And if I am?" she asked quizzically, raising her eyebrows at him and assuming a very familiar expression of disinterested skepticism. "I'm trying to prepare you for what is almost certainly inevitable. I'm trying to soften the blow."  
  
"I don't want it softened!" he screamed suddenly, making her jump like a startled deer. "I want to feel every ounce of pain when you die because if I shut it off or try to make it easier, then you'll really and truly be gone. I'll..... lose you," he trailed off.  
  
Brushing his cheek with her fingers, she contradicted him fervently: "No, you won't lose me. Remember all the ways you could still feel your parents with you, even if some of them were less comfortable than others," she admitted, remembering the Dementors.  
  
"'You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us?'" Harry muttered. Raising his voice, he explained: "Something Professor Dumbledore told me at the end of third year, when I explained to him about how I thought I saw my dad, but it was just my imagination," he finished hurriedly, not sure how much she knew about Sirius' 'great escape.' "He said my dad was alive in me."  
  
"And he is," she agreed. "Don't ever be fooled by Professor Dumbledore when he pretends to be vague or oblivious, Harry," she added, smiling. "He is very wise, and he understands the mysteries of life better than anyone, even himself."  
  
"But there's something more he wants, isn't there, some knowledge or experience or happiness, I can't quite figure it out," he rejoined slyly.  
  
He smiled and watched through her unfocused eyes as her mind drifted and finally slipped back. "Harry, I'm only going to say this once, so listen carefully." Harry grinned; even now, she still sounded like a schoolma'am. "Some things are more fulfilling and more precious when they're left unfulfilled. Unconditional trust; true, self-sacrificing friendship; the promise without the stain of betrayal..... these are the most valuable, the most rare, if not quite the best, things in life. Don't argue," she interjected as he opened his mouth to do just that. "Young people think that something should be taken just because it's there for the taking," she said with a shake of the head and a smile that made Harry feel two years old. "But they have yet to learn that some risks could never be worth taking. There's too much to lose. But then again, that has never stopped you before," she laughed. "Zooming around under the nose of an angry dragon. Most people would have run screaming in the other direction."  
  
"But not you," he protested. "You're one of my sort, you can't deny it. And I think Professor Dumbledore is, too. How else could he be who he is, face disaster like he does and only come out stronger?"  
  
"Harry. I'm going to get weaker, not stronger, as the week progresses, and you need to accept that. This is most definitely the wrong time to change the way things are."  
  
"But....."  
  
"Don't argue with me, Potter." He knew the issue was past the point of discussion then, and he settled for glaring at her defiantly, but with a hint of mischief. She spotted it and knew what it meant, and it frightened her more than all the nights filled with wakefulness and dreams of death put together. "Don't do this to me, Harry," she pleaded finally, and his determination cracked. Curling up on the floor once more and sitting cross- legged at her feet, he felt his rightful place again.  
  
"You let me in," he said stubbornly, like a little child insisting on a promised treat. "You just let me, and it's too late for me to go back to the way things were."  
  
"I don't want that, either, Harry," she said softly. "I don't want you thinking I'm a block of ice, or that you're just another face in a crowd of hundreds."  
  
"Why aren't I?" he asked curiously.  
  
"A promise," she said firmly. When he looked at her, confused, she rested a hand on his head and said mysteriously: "I knew your mother very well when she was a student at Hogwarts and afterwards. She trusted me very much. Don't even think it, Harry, you're not a duty," she snapped, and he gaped at her, thinking that her mind-reading skills were so reminiscent of Dumbledore it was scary. "She would let me hold you sometimes when she was busy around the house, making it a home. She and James would cook or tidy up, and I would hold you and talk to you. Knowing, of course, that you couldn't understand a word I said, but talking nevertheless. So you see, Harry, I couldn't not see to you after that night, a little over fourteen years ago now. Also, they cast a spell before they died, to seal the pact, a spell that bound us, in a way. Not in body or spirit, though..... a sort of fusion of our destinies. I suppose they were afraid you would try to escape me at some point," she laughed, but the sound was not mirthful, and Harry realized the bitterness she regarded herself with, saw how it fled when he showed her affection. He pushed himself up onto his knees and quickly threw his arms around her waist, holding his face to the soft creases of her robes and listening to her heartbeat.  
  
"That must have been why I was so worried about you in the beginning," he blurted out in amazement, but quickly added, "although it's not been the spell for a while now, I can tell."  
  
"So can I," she agreed, smiling. "Don't worry, Harry, the spell was only a catalyst. Catalysts simply set things in motion, they can't control the resulting reactions."  
  
"So I've learned," he emphasized wearily.  
  
"Well, then, all these years at school, going to classes, doing homework, facing near-certain death, have all been worthwhile," she teased lightly. "It's an important lesson," she continued more seriously. "It's one of the biggest and most important differences between you and the likes of Draco Malfoy. You've learned; he hasn't. And that might be why you will fight for hope and he for power. There's nothing more horrible or heartbreaking than a child who doesn't realize that the consequences of their actions could slip out of their grasp in an instant, and through no fault of their own. I'm sure he thinks he has everything under control, that he can choose his own fate at any time, and it could mean that he won't recognize true evil until it's staring him in the face and pointing a wand between his eyes. But, as you say, I needn't worry about you on that account."  
  
Harry frowned slightly; she sounded so satisfied. "Tell me something, please," he answered, rising to his feet again and restoring the equilibrium. "If you could be sure that all of us would be perfectly alright, that you had nothing to worry you about any of us, would you want to die?"  
  
"How could you ask me that? Of course I don't want to die. It seems restful, somehow, to think of the freedom in death, but no, I don't want to leave the life I have. Not anymore."  
  
Harry blinked. "I'm sorry, I thought you just said 'not *anymore*.'"  
  
"Not today, Harry. Some other time," she answered in a voice that Sybill Trelawney would have envied. He saw her mind was miles away, probably even on a different plane of existence, and he turned away with a sigh.  
  
"Well, I'll keep looking for-Peeves!!" The cackling poltergeist zoomed away over the shelves, bouncing off the walls with glee, and Harry, rubbing his head where Peeves had dropped something very heavy and very solid, saw an enormous book lying at his feet. He opened it gingerly as a great puff of dust flew into his nostrils. He choked and spluttered out, "Peeves must have been very bored. He probably had to go looking for hours in the darkest corner of the basement to find this thing." He scanned the table of contents quickly, and his glasses jumped off his nose in amazement. He pushed them back over his ears and said in a hushed, reverent voice: "I don't believe it."  
  
"What is it?" she asked curiously, leaning over his shoulder to read the blurred writing.  
  
"Peeves is a genius," Harry muttered in the tone of one who has just found out that up is down and is learning to walk on his hands. "This is it, this is the answer."  
  
A/N: MUHAHAHAHAHA!! I'm evil. 


	8. Chapter 8

Odds and Ends:  
  
Sorry, but Harry keeps poking his cute little nose into this story. Hopefully sometime I'll post a chapter that he manages to stay out of. I love him, but he's really beside the point in the romance plot, isn't he?  
  
Now to my wonderful reviewers:  
  
HPluvva: Thanks for asking such good questions and answering them yourself!  
  
Susan: Sorry to keep you hanging. Stay tuned for some answers.  
  
VoyICJ: I do understand, and I am writing seriously, don't worry.  
  
Lizella: Sorry. But you'll have to wait a little longer for the "not anymore" answer. Got some bigger fish to fry.  
  
Kala: Working on the railroad..... :) I know. But this really is as fast as I can go right now.  
  
Whisper: Oh my. Another juicy review, thanks so much. Yes, Harry will be fine. No worries there. I've been called many things, but never Voldemort! Thank you :) The "harvest" in the summary is an expression that simply means the outcome. It's just a rhetorical question to get people interested that basically means "What will come of it all?" And yes, this is a romance story, so I will "do something" about Minerva and Albus. Poor things, they deserve to be happy. Thank you for the honor of putting my story on your favorites, much obliged and very flattered! :)  
  
Skara Brae: Thank you. Cliffhangers are supposed to make you hate me, but only until the next chapter is posted :)  
  
Huffy: Thanks so much, dear. I'm so honored that you chose my story over your paper :) Yay for squishiness, and as you say, yay for Peeves!  
  
Mijuju: He got a book. And what's in the book is revealed in this chapter. Even I am not evil enough to keep that big of a cliffhanger going.  
  
Minerverette: Thank you so much! But I think Harry has had enough of Cupids, don't you? lol Although, then again, maybe he has got a trick or two up his sleeve, you never know with that boy!  
  
Mayfair: Thanks billions :D Keep reading!  
  
Alois: Please don't feel horrible. I don't expect a review every chapter from every reader. I would love it, but I don't expect it :) I know how annoying it is sometimes to feel like you should review but can't think of anything to say. But don't feel pressured to read faster. Goodness knows I don't feel pressured to write faster :)  
  
And AWAAAAYYY we go.....  
  
When both had finished reading, Harry snapped the book shut, his eyes wide and unseeing. They stood there looking at each other for a long time, until Harry broke the spell that astonishment had wrought around the room. "Come on, we've got to tell Dumbledore." When Professor McGonagall made no move to follow him, he turned around. "We've got to tell Dumbledore," he repeated.  
  
"What would we say, exactly?" she asked bitterly. "That my own father killed me trying to protect me? That I need Professor Dumbledore's help to fix me? That I wouldn't be in this mess if I had run away from home when I was young? That....." she stuttered and fell silent again.  
  
"Tell him..... whatever you've always told him," Harry answered stubbornly. "The truth..... he'll find it anyway, and you can always be sure your trust is justified."  
  
"I trust *you*, Harry," she burst out angrily. "I can't tell him..... this. Don't you see how horrible this makes everything?"  
  
"Would you rather die?" he shouted furiously, suddenly losing the control that had been tenuous at best since the beginning of the conversation. "Losing face is what you're most afraid of, isn't it, even more than death. God forbid you have to ask for help. God forbid you have to ask for something you already have."  
  
"That will do, Potter," she answered freezingly. "I've asked you to understand, and it's plain you cannot. It only remains to ask for your help. We've got to do this alone, that's my final word. Will you help me, and will you keep this from Professor Dumbledore and any other interfering parties?"  
  
Harry glared at her through his tumbling glasses and his bangs, which had fallen every which way into his eyes, too angry for words. He took several deep breaths and answered: "I'll help you, you know that. I can't let you die. And I won't tell Professor Dumbledore"- she let out a relieved sigh at this- "Not because I agree with you, because I don't, but because he needs to hear it from you. But please understand this," he continued in a tone of ice that matched her own perfectly, "if it works, and you live, I'll make you tell him if it's the last thing I do."  
  
She stared at him for a moment, impressed by his anger and the ease with which he showed it. To her, of all people. The boy belonged in Gryffindor and no mistake. She almost smiled, but caught herself just in time. "It might be," she answered ominously, "but I agree to your terms. Let's get started." Harry's anger instantly drained away, leaving nothing but a vague annoyance and utter exhaustion. He yawned widely, causing his ice sculpture of a professor to melt and exclaim: "On second thoughts, I believe it's time for bed. Let's continue this tomorrow. Goodnight, dear," she said quickly, and shooting him a final apologetic glance, she left the room.  
  
Harry sighed in defeat; that was probably the last time she would be sorry for a while to come. He couldn't believe she would do this without Dumbledore. He regretted promising to help her conceal their findings, but he was determined to stick to his word; the consequences of a broken promise jutting up between them now could be disastrous. It was *too* incredible, he reflected. Peeves had found that book. And he, Harry, had opened it and found what was possibly the most obscure magical cure in existence. Something that wasn't strictly magical at all, but human nature. He had read how wishes could become curses or spells if some other wishing magic is present, and how the opposite wish could undo them under the same conditions. The spells that protected her from Grindelwald only bought her time, Harry thought angrily. Muggles write all these books about magic and how amazing and wonderful it would be to have those powers, but they don't have a clue. They don't know how horrible it can be. For one brief moment, Harry had wanted to be a Muggle again, in the moment when he had read the part about the spells and their effects. At least Muggles have a chance at saving their own lives, for sure, when someone's trying to kill them, Harry thought on as he made a movement to throw a fist at the mocking stones of the wall, but happily, rethought it.  
  
They had realized the situation at the same moment. How Professor McGonagall's father had created all his apparently marvelous magic from wishes; just wish you're invisible, and you are, wish to be unseen, but forget to wish Grindelwald would go away! Harry almost sneered, but he realized it hadn't been so foolish after all. Old Mr. McGonagall probably slowed Grindelwald down a lot, thought Harry with some unwilling admiration. He gave his life for the wizarding world, for his family's lives..... except for one. He didn't have the power to unmake evil, or to save his daughter's life, but he gave what he could. Harry desperately wanted to give what he could. And he was lucky; she had given him the chance. He almost burst into tears when he thought how much Dumbledore wanted to give her, and she wouldn't let him. Just because she was ashamed to ask. In order to save her life, the curse first had to be convinced that it was worth saving, that someone cared enough for her to be destroyed by her death, and they both knew there were only two people who fit that description and were able to help her. And she had chosen him, a fifteen- year-old wizard with nothing but a little unusual talent and marvelous luck, over possibly the greatest wizard who had ever lived. And he knew it was because of the difference in their styles of aid. Dumbledore, in his eagerness to help, seemed to her to be offering charity, and she didn't want it because she felt she didn't deserve it. He, Harry, was different. She could demand this of him because of their relative positions, demand it as the duty of a student to his elders and betters. But that didn't make it any less wrong in Harry's eyes.  
  
He yawned again as he made his way towards Gryffindor Tower. Recreating that wish would be difficult work. He didn't know if he had the strength, but he was pulled out of his self-pity by the thought that he wasn't the one whose life was hanging in the balance. He would survive this..... probably. It was possible that the drain of power would overcome the force of his blood pumping through his body, but rather unlikely. And the mental and emotional proponents would be the most necessary, anyway. He had to equal Grindelwald's hatred with his love; he had to speak and feel with the passion Grindelwald had exuded, and this was exactly what Professor McGonagall had refused to ask of Professor Dumbledore, even though his chances of success were much greater than Harry's, for many reasons.  
  
Having reached the portrait hole, Harry saluted the Fat Lady with "filthy skrewt," and she nodded lazily before swinging open, the equivalent of this for humans being sleepwalking, Harry thought. He was about to go up to bed when a soft voice whispered, "Harry." Harry jumped. Couldn't they just let him sleep, and they could talk about this tomorrow? He turned around to face the stooping figure of Professor Dumbledore, who was bent over the grate and playing with the fireirons. "So, how did it go?"  
  
Harry swallowed. He wished he knew a spell to transform into a hippogriff and fly out the window. That was the only way he could escape blurting out everything. Professor Dumbledore had caught him when he was vulnerable and they both knew it. "No luck," said Harry flatly, knowing the minute his voice escaped his mouth that Dumbledore was not fooled. On the contrary, he looked up in surprise, and Harry saw more confusion and turmoil in the jolly blue eyes than was anywhere in the vicinity of his comfort level. His voice shook and he couldn't form his thoughts coherently: "Please, sir, she..... I..... I can't....."  
  
"You can't lie or tell the truth, can you, Harry?" he asked sadly. When Harry nodded, he continued: "Yes, I thought so. She's so stubborn..... she won't accept my help, or anything I -- " He cut off sharply and lowered himself into the sofa nearest the fire. "Come here, Harry," he invited. Harry slowly complied, feeling as old as Dumbledore looked. First her, now him. Do I have to do everything around here? he thought rebelliously. Dumbledore lifted a heavy hand and rested it gently on Harry's shoulder, turning him so they were facing each other on the scarlet cushions, the firelight glinting off their foreheads and glasses. "I'm sorry, Harry, I can't let you sleep yet," he began.  
  
Harry nodded wearily. "I know. But if she thinks she can't trust me, she won't let me help her either, and then what? I can't betray her, even if it's only a small thing and meant to help her, it would be horrible."  
  
"I know, Harry, and I'm not asking you to slip me her secrets. But what I do need to know is: can you do it? Is there anyway I could help without her knowledge?"  
  
Harry shook his head desperately, making his hair fly every which way in a wind of dismay. "No, there's nothing..... I have to do this.....spell, and it has to come from me alone, or she'd know; it has to be with her, and it's the only way to keep her alive."  
  
Dumbledore's grip was suddenly unbearably tight. Harry wriggled uncomfortably, but to no avail. He didn't dare look into his headmaster's face. "Can you do it, Harry?" The question was demanding, pressing him for an answer more tightly than Dumbledore's fingers were pressing into his collarbone. Harry would have protested, but he knew the grip was unconscious, and that its fuel was not anger, but desperate, barely concealed fear, such an unfamiliar emotion coming from the steadfast, capable Professor that he in turn was frightened. Dumbledore, who had not succumbed or even lost his dignity in the face of Grindelwald, Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy or any others who had tried to collapse him, was afraid of Minerva McGonagall's death. Harry hastened to answer over the burning sensation rising from his stomach into his throat.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Without risk?"  
  
"Without risk to her, yes. If it doesn't work, she'll be no worse off than she was before." He forced himself to raise his head, and knew as soon as the blue eyes crashed into his own what was coming next.  
  
"What about you?" When Harry blinked in hesitation, Dumbledore drew in a deep breath. "No, Harry. I will not allow you to put yourself at risk, not even to save her."  
  
Harry smiled ruefully, then fixed his gaze unwaveringly to the headmaster's. "Wouldn't you?"  
  
Dumbledore returned the same smile, and said firmly: "Yes, I would do the same. But you're a boy, Harry, not an old man with very little left to do. And *you* have nothing to prove to her....."  
  
"I wish she'd tell you!" Harry shouted angrily, earning himself a shushing hand over his mouth. "Sorry. But I do wish she would. I told her if the spell worked and she survived that I'd make her tell you somehow. At least she agreed to that."  
  
"Did she?" Harry tried to refocus his eyes and caught a very peculiar look on Dumbledore's face in the firelight. The shadows in his face looked deeper, but less dreadful, and he looked somehow like Harry had felt on his first Christmas at Hogwarts when Ron had shown him all his presents. But Harry knew that the best was still better than that, and that it was coming, too. He was a kid, but he was learning to see the things in people's faces that grownups saw, and what he had seen on Professor McGonagall's face when she had begged him not to tell Dumbledore about the spell, in addition to the look that still hadn't left Dumbledore's face, told him he would have very little work to do after all.  
  
"Yes. You know, she doesn't like hiding things from you," he added helpfully.  
  
Dumbledore laughed, and Harry flushed, afraid he had already blown the whole plan. "I know, Harry. But as we all know, old habits are not easily cured." Harry exhaled softly, relieved that Dumbledore had chosen (perhaps deliberately, but did it really matter?) to take his words at their surface value. "For instance," continued Dumbledore whimsically, pulling a small bag out of his pocket, "Professor McGonagall has been trying for years to separate me from these, but I haven't listened to her either. Would you like a lemon drop, Harry? I trust I won't have to explain to *you* what they are." Harry shrugged gratefully and took one, concentrating only on the tart and sugary sensations in his mouth.  
  
"Ruining his teeth, Albus?" came a very sharp voice from behind the sofa. They both swivelled guiltily around, looking for all the world like two little boys with their hands caught in the proverbial cookie jar. It was all Minerva could do not to burst out laughing, but she sobered quickly at the implications of a late-night tete-a-tete between these two. "I thought I sent you to bed, child," she said severely, glaring at Harry in a way that made it plain she expected him to get a move on.  
  
"You did, but..... I'm going," he finished quietly. As he came level with her, he noticed Professor Dumbledore return his attention to the fireplace; playing deaf was one of his favorite games, Harry knew, but this time, it wasn't a game. "I told him almost nothing," Harry said, and they both heard the accusing note his sentence carried. "I couldn't lie to him..... I only told him that I had to do a spell to heal you, and that he couldn't help. That's all."  
  
His despair, fused into these last two words, finally broke her, and she took his face in her hands, exclaiming bitterly: "I'm so sorry, Harry. I should never have asked you to lie for me. I should never have burdened you like this, especially in light of what you're doing for me....."  
  
Harry realized he couldn't let her keep going in this vein. They would be here all night. "It's all right. I've worked that out ok. And now I'm going to bed."  
  
"Mind you clean your teeth," came the cheerful voice from the fireside. "Will that do, Minerva?"  
  
"Oh, you two," she growled. Harry smiled and headed for the stairs. Before he reached the door with "Fifth-Years" emblazoned on it, he saw Professor McGonagall heading for the portrait hole, until a voice stopped her: "Please, stay." Harry grinned and dashed into the room, almost slamming the door behind him in his hurry to get out of their way, but managed to catch it in time, reminded by Neville's deafening snores that it was time to sleep. 


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Sorry this took a while! But I hope and think it's worth it. Answers to reviewers:  
  
Xela: 1) Wait and see. I am a fan of R/H, but there's no room for that in this story. Only one pairing here. 2) This one.  
  
Jedi Amoira: Yes, I agree. Thanks!  
  
VoyICJ: Yes, you will find out about the spell. I don't just throw these things in there. Don't be so shocked to find believable literary devices. They do exist :)  
  
HPluvva: What are you confused about? I suggest you reread the part where Minerva explains it; she's the teacher, not me, and she's good at explaining things! Although I actually did include a bit more in this chapter about that. And how is "vein" a typo? It refers to either a transportation unit for blood or the course that a conversation is taking.  
  
Huffy: LOL! Yes, I've assumed that Dumbledore can go wherever he wants at Hogwarts. It's his castle, after all. Good point: I should probably wean him away from McGonagall at some point in the story and show the rest of his life, but I'd rather focus on the yummy parts :) And Harry is in school, and everything is proceeding along the lines of a normal schoolyear, but I've chosen not to describe those boring parts :) He's going to class and everything; the parts I'm showing are in the evening, usually, and between classes, I guess. And I was not planning to include Ron and Hermione, but they are really too cute to leave out. Read on to figure out what that means.  
  
Geetha: Thank you so much! I'm amazed to find my fanfic has branched out so far.  
  
Tea: What a wonderful string of compliments. Thank you so much.  
  
Isobel D. McGonagall: Thank you. We'll see whether or not Harry is up to the challenge. The answer to your love/friendship question is in this chapter. :D  
  
Alois: No, I hadn't meant the interpretation to penetrate that deeply. I just liked that verse :) And I don't know about Minerva's Animagus form. I might just call it inconvenient and ignore it. If you want to read some really cool fanfiction with Minerva/cat and a whole bunch of Dumbledore, you should check out Alchemine's story arc that includes Ties That Bind, June Week, The Shadowchasers (in progress) and Post Hoc Ergo Prompter Hoc, in that order. Wonderful stuff.  
  
Carmilla: Thanks so much! Terrific review :) Trust me, I don't plan on doing anything easily in this story. And you make a valid point about Harry. But if you read carefully, you can see that the spell only gave Harry a nudge, it didn't force any artificial feelings. But it is true that I love spells so much I get carried away with them sometimes :)  
  
All right, on with the show.....  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the people, places or things in this story. That privilege belongs exclusively to the lovely J. K. Rowling, as I'm sure you're all aware.  
  
  
  
Minerva waited until she knew Harry was out of earshot before she curled up in one of the armchairs by the fire. She was frightened, and looked it, and it was doubly unpleasant because she was not accustomed to this unlucky combination. When the silence had grown for a while, testing the limits of her nerves, she shifted and cleared her throat. "What is it you want, Albus?"  
  
A spasm of something that could have been anger- if he'd let it- flew swiftly over Dumbledore's features and disappeared just as quickly. "To begin with," he answered in his stately manner, "I think we should cease to employ Harry as our own personal messenger. The poor boy has enough on his plate as it is, if I understood him correctly." At this, he paused in his soft paces over the hearth to fix his glance on her face, hoping for the smallest answer. Nothing but an additional faint flicker of terror appeared, however, and he sighed heavily, looking his age for the first time in a long while. "Can you tell me whether or not I understand, Minerva?"  
  
It took her a few moments to take in these words, but when she did, her face paled, and she stood up quickly, moving to stand in front of him on the hearthrug. "I can only tell you that you have what you need in order to understand, Albus," she said quietly, reaching out a trembling hand for his, and he grasped it firmly. "Harry..... he wants so much to help. Can you just allow him this? You've given me so much already; can you give a dear, loving boy the happiness of giving the gift of life to someone he cares for deeply? This is what *he* understands, Albus. Selflessness, honor and taking up the cause of justice. He does what is right because it is his nature. If you can accept this, and let him give me this gift, then you do understand."  
  
He looked as if she had taken him off his guard, but he was not surprised. He smiled sympathetically, and with a sudden, unpredictable movement pulled her into his arms. They simply held on for a few minutes, as much to steady themselves and each other as anything, until he finally broke the new silence. "Whatever happens, we always meet in the middle sometime, don't we, my dear?" She nodded against his shoulder, and he continued in the sort of voice that was determined to find answers. "You never answered my last question." She lifted her head so that their eyes met, and stared at him, confused. "In my office, I asked you three questions, the last of which you never answered. How did you realize what was happening to you?" When she made a hesitating movement and pulled away slightly, his eyebrows drew together. "I am sorry, Minerva, but I can no longer give you the option of refusing me an answer. I need one," he warned gently. When she still seemed to refuse, he added: "I need a bit of proof, no matter how small, that you still trust me."  
  
Her eyes filled with reluctant tears, and she whispered rebelliously: "You've never needed proof before."  
  
His arms tightened around her. "You've never before been unwilling to offer it."  
  
"Oh, Albus," she scolded with a touch of her old exasperated tone, "it's not at all that simple. Of course I trust you. But this bit..... well, it's not pleasant."  
  
"That should hardly prevent you from sharing it," he rejoined swiftly. "This whole situation has been a series of nightmares from the very beginning. What is one more?"  
  
"You're perfectly right," she conceded. "Very well, then. A few..... weeks ago, I began waking up in the morning feeling like I'd been run over by the Knight Bus. Strange, since Eloise's accident happened only very recently. Perhaps the curse knew what was in store, and was intent on my suffering. In any case..... everything ached, but there were no marks, only invisible pain. Healing spells had no effect whatsoever. I began to remember things I had forgotten a long time ago, things that I had seen or heard or..... felt." She stopped short and would have halted entirely but for the warm encouragement in Albus' eyes. "Childhood illnesses, injuries, jealousies, sorrows, they all came pouring in on me day after day. And it didn't stop there. All of the horrors of my entire past surfaced one after the other, as if I had had a Dementor standing at my side 24 hours a day." He suddenly looked as though he wanted to say something, but she only squeezed his shoulders more tightly and continued. "One day the memory of my father's murder surfaced, and I heard Grindelwald's voice in my ears for hours on end. It clicked in my brain, and I was convinced I'd found the reason for the inexplicable. I searched in hundreds of books, but I never found any mention of such a thing, never mind how to cure it."  
  
"And I never saw....." His voice was heavy with guilt, but Minerva shook her head.  
  
"Yes, you did," she contradicted him hotly. "You saw, but I wouldn't let you do anything about it. Don't pin this on yourself. I was an idiot, and it's time I got down off my high horse and admitted it."  
  
"What?" he asked, feigning a look of complete shock. "The indomitable Professor McGonagall, surrender?"  
  
"Only when I'm very sure I'm beaten, Albus," she laughed. "Absolutely sure."  
  
His smile faded, and she saw that pain again, that agony in his eyes that made her feel gutted, ripped apart in an instant. "Yes, that's it, isn't it? You must be sure." She was confused, but wished he would hurry through whatever he had to say so that she could make that horrible look disappear from his face. "You will not take any chances, will you? Not even when they lie at your feet, waiting to be explored." Tears of unbearable, ungovernable terror sprang to her eyes, and she jumped out of his arms, restraining a cry just in time, remembering the children dozing at the top of the staircase. One, in particular, slept there whom she needed to be absent from this very scene, otherwise she would lose, and she could not lose.  
  
"Oh, why now?" she struggled out. "Why must you do this now, and kill me at the jaws of death?"  
  
"Because you will not live," he answered solemnly, but with a rising passion of hurt fighting anger in his voice. "You will not take what life has seen fit to give. You deny yourself, but you deny me as well." Her eyes widened in shock, and he nodded grimly. "Did you ever think of that? No, I expect not." He was silent for a few moments, regaining control, and then he continued in what seemed at first a different direction. "Do you know why I stay here, Minerva?"  
  
She was thrown, and could only respond with the obvious answer: "For the children."  
  
He nodded sadly. "Yes and no. The children speak of the protection that I give them. 'As long as Dumbledore is here, we are safe,' they say, and I need them to hold to that belief. But that is not all. They give me something as well. They give me what some might call the illusion of youth, but that is not quite it. It is not precisely their youth that I covet. It is the luxury of waiting that is awarded to that youth. The young take it for granted; they play with it, desiring everything now, unable to restrain their enthusiasm. It is one of the cruelest ironies of this life, Minerva, that one of the most precious gifts we are given is only bestowed on those who do not make use of it. I want the time that is fled, Minerva. I want the time to wait for you."  
  
Minerva could only sink to the floor, vainly trying to erase each tear as it flowed victoriously, to suppress each sob as it burst from the marrow of her ribs. "I don't deserve it," she wept bitterly. "You shouldn't love me."  
  
"If it were a matter of choice, Minerva, many other paths, both fortunate and otherwise, might be open to us, but we cannot guess now what they might be. Whether or not Harry's spell succeeds in prolonging your life, we have very little time. I am very old, Minerva, and at my age an unfulfilled life is not something to be lightly cast aside. Whatever you think we may have to lose, would you rather lose along with it, when I leave this life, everything we have not gained? I sit now as the Muggle ruler, Damocles, is rumored to have done, with a sharp steel weapon, a sword, suspended above his head by a single hair. Will you drop the blade, Minerva?"  
  
"Stop, please!" she cried, unmindful now of the noise she was making. "You know the answers to those questions. Don't ask them! You call your life unfulfilled, when you have achieved so much! You have my heart, Albus. Must you wring it from my chest as well?"  
  
Remorse filled his eyes, as clear as the summer sky, but he spoke on, as if some other force were spilling out the contents of his mind on the altar of flame and brick at her feet. "I must, if that will force you to look at it and see that it beats and bleeds. I will talk no more of this now, Minerva, at least I will wait until Harry has performed the counter-curse. When you see that you have a heart of human flesh, and not of some immortal metal, we will speak some more." She let out a moan of grief, and, taking both of her hands, he knelt beside her on the hearth. "Don't cry," he begged quietly. "I will stop now because I do not wish to bully you into something you see as a defeat. I only need you to think as I have done, to place your life on a scale and wonder whether you would deem it worth buying."  
  
"It seems worth the most now, when I am faced with its loss," she sobbed. She saw the undemanding sympathy in his eyes and reached out for him. He pulled back reluctantly and brought her arms back down to her sides.  
  
"Wait," he said simply. "Think what it is you want, for once you have opened the doors, you will no longer be able to keep me out." He looked at the depths of her eyes, swimming in turbulence, clearly remembering with confusion the earlier embrace. "I know you, Minerva. You value your barriers and gates very highly, but now they have reached the ground and shut tightly as they had not before. I passed underneath, back and forth, but not without a price. They have brought forth a need for choice. On which side do I stand? Think."  
  
"But what did I do? How did I close the doors?"  
  
He looked at her very seriously, choosing his words and studying with affection every line and emotion in her face. "You showed me, if you stopped short of the words, that you prefer to stand alone. But the first sign that this choice was upon us reached me long before tonight. You ask what you did? You left. I saw everything you felt for me, and I saw the fear, and you let the fear win. For a short while only," he added as she opened her mouth to protest, "but the decision was made, and not slowly or deliberately, either. You showed me how tenuous my hold on you really is, and I can truly say I have never been so frightened, not in all my travels, as you put it, to the jaws of death."  
  
"I need to rest, Albus," she whispered faintly, her grip on his hand suddenly numbing in its fierce strength. "I cannot think any longer. And I have nothing more to say now. I need to rest," she repeated.  
  
He squeezed her hand tightly, and smiling wearily, pulled them both to their feet. "Goodnight. Pleasant dreams."  
  
Minerva laughed bitterly. "I sincerely doubt it," she answered painfully. "But thank you."  
  
"No, I *say*!" shouted a sudden, annoyed voice from the stairwell. A hand instantly clamped over the mouth that had spoken, which belonged to a rather freckled face, now as red in anger as the curls framing it. As the two professors whirled around with identical looks of dismay, the mouth wrestled free of the restraining hand and yelled: "You can't leave it like that!" to a double echo of "Shut UP, Ron!" The slim, angry hand that had covered Ron's mouth ripped itself away and a young girl with a very pink face and downcast eyes stood up in its place from a dark corner of the stair. She was joined in a moment by a second boy, with an equally flushed and glowing face, but with an added look of pain and shock that did not escape the swift gazes of either adult. Minerva instantly assumed her best professorial manner, unwilling to give in to embarrassment, to anger or to hysterical laughter, although all three threatened to claim her. The children were the ones who should suffer in this situation.  
  
"Exactly what do you mean," she whispered dangerously, "by leaving your beds in the middle of the night, sneaking around Gryffindor Tower and....."- she swallowed painfully-"eavesdropping on private conversations?"  
  
Ron's courage rose with every syllable. He was as angry and desperate as a child deprived of the end of a bedtime story, and he wanted answers. "We- oof," he exclaimed as Hermione's elbow connected sharply with his ribs. Dancing around out of her reach, he continued: "We mean to find out what you're playing at."  
  
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Weasley?" she growled icily, but there was painful reproach in her eyes, and she was not looking at Ron. Hermione saw it, and quickly spoke up.  
  
"He means that *he* wanted to poke his nose into other people's business," she explained, with a forceful glare in Ron's direction, which he promptly ignored. "We had to come along to keep him quiet. And it didn't work," she finished lamely, and Minerva only just caught the bubble of laughter rising in her throat in the nick of time.  
  
"It's true, Professor," Harry blurted out. "I heard Ron moving about, and I couldn't stop him, so I followed him." Remembering Hermione, he added quickly: "And Hermione was only doing her Prefect duties."  
  
"Nightly Patrols, Harry," she corrected sharply.  
  
Minerva was relieved beyond words, and the relief gave way to utter exhaustion. "Back to bed, all three of you," she demanded fiercely, waving dismissively in the direction of the dormitories. "Now."  
  
"But....." sputtered Ron.  
  
"NOW!" Everyone jumped, including Minerva. Dumbledore rarely raised his voice. When he did, it was a sure sign that he was extremely angry, and that it was a very good idea to do as he said. The three children raced up the stairs, Harry shooting an apologetic look downwards as he and Ron shot off to the left, Hermione to the right. When they were gone, Minerva staggered on her feet, nearly collapsing with weakness. Avoiding the piercing blue source of her pain and of her life, Minerva kept her eyes down and whispered a hurried "goodnight" before vanishing out of the portrait hole. The fire dimmed, and suddenly the room was empty. 


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Notes to reviewers.....  
  
VoyICJ: Sorry for making you wait. Thanks so much for the glowing review!  
  
MissLemon: Thank you!  
  
Xela: What gave you the impression I was mad at you? I don't get mad at reviewers, unless they flame me, then I roast them :)  
  
Minerverette: I guess Gryffindor Tower was a little public, but it was pretty spontaneous; I'm not sure there's a real problem with the setting. But thank you!  
  
geetha: Thank you very much. Here is Chapter 10 :)  
  
Child-of-the-Dawn: Yes, it's true that Rowling never portrays McGonagall or Dumbledore like this, but this is creative license. I'm not exploring how they would react to an everyday situation, I'm exploring how they might react if these things happened. And I don't really think any of it is too far off base, but that's only my opinion. The sappiness comes at the end, and not too easily, either. Although I thought the last chapter was sappy, in an angsty way.  
  
Kylie: Thanks so much. Keep reading!  
  
myztrice: I'm glad you like it. I also think there are far too few Dumbledore/McGonagall fanfics.  
  
Huffy: Thank you for the cute review! Glad you liked that chapter. And I hope you actually got around to cleaning your room! CoS was lots of fun; I'm glad we went.  
  
HPluvva: Don't worry, this chapter is a lot more action-packed than any of them have been for a while.  
  
On with the show.....  
  
  
  
Harry was frightened, and this was having a decidedly bad influence on Snape. Harry always dreaded Potions, especially these afternoon double sessions, but today was the most horrible lesson he had ever had, which was saying something. Snape struck at every turn like a serpent sensing fear in its victims, abusing Harry so thoroughly that the boy was torn between running for the door and marching to the front of the room to smack Snape on his ugly nose. These two forces pulling him in opposite directions thankfully had the effect of keeping him glued to his chair, but he boiled with anger and wished that one of the forces would give way. Ron was muttering "dirty git" under his breath every minute or so, and Hermione elbowed him gently and whispered: "Harry, calm down. Don't provoke him. He'll only get worse."  
  
"How much worse could it get?"  
  
"You could be a ferret," she sniggered, and Harry barely kept himself from laughing. Indeed, Draco Malfoy would always be the winner of the Hogwarts 'Most Humiliated' award. No one would ever top the Professor-Moody-with-a- ferret-in-the-corridor incident. A great bang two inches from his nose quickly secured his attention. It turned out to be a pale, cruel hand that had slammed his desk with terrifying force.  
  
"Mr. Potter," growled a voice, floating around him and showing its owner in full fury, "have you finished your potion yet?"  
  
"No, sir," he answered firmly. He might lose a lot of things in the next few minutes, but he intended to keep his self-control from being one of them.  
  
"Then why is it you believe that you have free license to gossip, instead of working on it?" Snape's voice rose dangerously on the last two words, and Harry almost flinched. Careful, Potter, he told himself. Don't give him ammunition.  
  
"I will continue adding ingredients when the potion is finished boiling, sir. Those are the instructions you gave us."  
  
Snape only glared more furiously, but as Harry's cauldron had suddenly started bubbling, all he could say was: "Ten points from Gryffindor; pay attention, all of you," and he stalked off, black robes now billowing menacingly over Neville's shoulder, making him shake like a leaf in a thunderstorm.  
  
"You're a genius, Hermione," Harry whispered gratefully. "It could have been fifty."  
  
"Make mine boil, Hermione," Ron begged. "I've added everything already, but it just sits there like it expects me to do something. And I'm not in the mood for a staring contest with a pot."  
  
Rolling her eyes, Hermione tucked her wand into her sleeve, pointed her arm covertly in the direction of Ron's cauldron, and whispered something under her breath. The potion instantly began to leap and froth madly, and Ron cursed quietly as one spray jumped to the very edge, threatening his robes. "You take this one, Hermione," he hissed. "It obviously likes you better."  
  
"Don't be an idiot, Ron," she answered quickly. "No spell I know could save us from detention if Snape saw us switching cauldrons."  
  
They bickered on behind Snape's back for the rest of the lesson, and Harry listened with one ear, trying to take in Snape's instructions with the other, but all it managed to hear were echoes of the painful scene that had played out the night before in the Gryffindor common room. It had been the equivalent for Harry of a holy row between parents. He had flinched with every word as if they were striking him, and he was angry, but most of all, he was hurt. He agreed with every word Dumbledore had said, although often he had wanted to jump between them and stop the headmaster from hurting her. He had been angry with Ron for making the situation so absurd, but he was beyond grateful to him for stopping them, for stopping all that pain shooting through the air. Even embarrassment was better than *that*.  
  
The three friends walked silently out of the dungeon together, both of Harry's companions realizing that he was thinking thoughts that needed to run their own course, not be interrupted. Suddenly Harry looked up, and the trio stopped in their tracks when they almost blazed right into a solid human body.  
  
Her face was pale and tired. Harry knew she hadn't slept, and he felt a stab of guilt for his own pain. He looked quickly away from her eyes. They were dark and haunted, and he felt badly enough already. She was dying; she didn't need this. She didn't..... But Harry wasn't so sure. Maybe this was exactly what she *did* need. He found himself struggling with this question as he looked at her once more and saw what the night before had done to her, how fragile she was, physically and emotionally.  
  
"Professor," they greeted her in unison. She nodded her head and reached a hand out at Harry's shoulder. "Come with me, Potter," she said quietly, and he turned quickly to his friends.  
  
"I'll meet you back in the common room," he said, and they nodded, Ron sending an apologetic look at his teacher before he and Hermione headed off down the corridor.  
  
Her look immediately softened, but the ghostly clouds in her eyes remained. "I need to talk to you, Harry," she said seriously. "Come with me to my office."  
  
He nodded, and they set off down the corridor. Harry smiled sadly as he found himself struggling to keep up with her pace, even now that his head reached up just above hers. He found his memory whizzing back to a day four years ago, a day that had seen him dreading his impending expulsion and had surprised him a few minutes later with a great gift and wonderful opportunity, thanks to her. He had trotted miserably along at her side, sure of impending doom, and she had turned around and opened up another world for him, a game that he was good at, one of the best things in his life. He knew what gift he could repay her with, but it seemed beyond his hopes now. She would never allow it. He would have to settle for a lesser, more fundamental one. Instead of being the instrument of her happiness, he would be her savior on a physical level, and it was still a very precious thing to give. But she would despise it if it claimed his life in return. She would not see how that enriched the gift; she would only hate him for setting at such low value what she prized so much. He would have to find a way to ensure that he survived that spell.  
  
They had arrived at her office, and directing him to a chair, she settled herself behind the desk. Harry suddenly felt disciplined. He wished she would come and sit by him, but perhaps she felt she needed the distance. "Harry....." she began.  
  
"I'm sorry I listened in," he blurted out, "but I was trying to stay out of the way and..... unnoticed."  
  
"I understand, Harry," she interrupted wearily. "I'm not interested in blaming or punishing you. On the contrary, I'm glad you heard," she confessed, ending in a strangled whisper. "I want to know if you blame *me*."  
  
"What?" he gasped. Shock was settling like heavy fog over his mind, stopping his thoughts and words. "Never..... Even if he was right, you never deserved all of that." He swallowed desperately. "I don't know what I think, if that's what you're asking."  
  
"Yes, Harry, that's precisely what I'm asking," she replied swiftly. "I'm very grateful for your sympathy, but I want your approval as well. Can you give it?"  
  
Harry squirmed in the chair, unwilling to answer. He knew the truth would hurt her, and he wanted nothing more than to avoid that. "I can't approve of anything that tortures you like this," he answered shakily, determined not to cry but finding it a losing battle. Honestly, he was 15 now; crying was for babies. But telling himself that didn't seem to work.  
  
He studied his sleeve intently, determined that if he did cry, she wouldn't see. It seemed, however, that even in her natural human form she retained the eyesight of a cat, and in no time at all she was at his side and wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders. The pain had grown beyond the influence of embarrassment, and they both knew that he would not resent this kind of comfort now. "Forgive me," she pleaded softly, and he nodded, staying put until he felt he had regained enough control to look into her eyes again. He pulled away slowly, so she would not think he was embarrassed or annoyed.  
  
"It's not fair," he complained dully, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes with his sleeve.  
  
"I know," she answered heavily. "But don't you see what a difference you make? If it were just he and I living like this..... I don't know what I'd do. And I would hurt him terribly, even more than this; I would force him to let me die. You're saving us both from that, Harry."  
  
"You shouldn't need me that much," he answered, annoyed in spite of the pleasant warmth - resembling the feel of Fawkes' feathers more than anything - that filled him at her expressions of gratitude.  
  
Her pallor grew at these words, and he fell silent. She was remembering her words to Albus. 'You shouldn't love me' rang repeatedly in her mind like a church bell someone had forgotten to silence. He had offered her everything, and she had told him flatly that what he felt was wrong, that he should take it all back. "No, you're right," she finally responded, "but it's difficult not to. I always wanted a child of my own, Harry, so when I was given the chance to care for you, I suppose I overdid it a bit." She smiled ruefully, absently reaching out to brush the unruly black hair out of his eyes.  
  
"You're asking a lot," he said plaintively, "but I promise I won't die. You can hold on to that."  
  
She stared at him, and he could see the beginnings of tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "How can you know that, Harry?"  
  
"I won't," he repeated stubbornly. "I won't die. If you just believe that, then the spell will go brilliantly. There's nothing to worry about."  
  
They looked at each other for several seconds, and Harry got a bad feeling that she was going to call his bluff. This proved true the next second when she suddenly said: "Right. Let's get this over with, then. Have you got your wand, Harry?"  
  
"Umm, yeah, I think so," he stuttered, although he knew perfectly well that his wand was tucked into his left sleeve. He pulled it out reluctantly and aimed it at her chest. "Your..... your hand," he managed, and she looked at him questioningly. "The spell has to know who the healing agent is and where it is supposed to find the power. Give me your hand." She grabbed his left hand tightly, and he blinked when the joints cracked. "Ok, here I go," he muttered, stalling and dispelling nervousness at the same time. He closed his eyes and began:  
  
When blood peaks forth in final rage / And gives no consequence to age, / But leaves behind one loyal life / To take its place in coldest strife, / Then power can decide the fate / Of two fresh souls, and make them wait / For judgment on the hearth of death / Where souls are kept in soggy breath-- / Twixt light and dark shall fade away / The essence of the coming day / And life reborn or brought to dust / Shall take the place of empty crust! / Bring now two lives to sharpest point / And with new life them both anoint!  
  
Both were knocked to the floor by the wind of magical energy that swept over them, and Harry only just managed to keep their hands intertwined and his wand pointing at Professor McGonagall's chest. The room grew hazy, as if someone had blurred the contours of the walls and furniture with an eraser, and Harry concentrated with all his might on things pertaining to his life. Ron, Hermione, Quidditch, Sirius away from harm and writing to him..... Yes, that was it! Sirius' letters. They were a concrete link to life at Hogwarts. What had the last one said?  
  
"Dear Harry, Glad to hear everything is well at Hogwarts and that someone's looking after you in my place." That had been in answer to Harry's letter about Professor McGonagall. "Hope to hear every move you make in your next Quidditch match. Snuffles will sneak round to the back door of the nearest newspaper stand once in a while to keep up with the wizarding world. Glad to hear about Hermione and that awful Skeeter woman. Tell the girl she's an angel. But don't forget to tell her *I* said it." Harry tried to grin against the whirling mists freezing his skin. As if Hermione would believe him anyway, even if he did want to say anything like that to her. And even if he did, he wouldn't, because Ron would skin him alive. What came next?  
  
"Hope you're studying hard for those O.W.L.s. They can be nasty buggers if you're not prepared. I thought I had it in Transfiguration until the turtle opened its mouth and started singing. Can you imagine the look on McGonagall's face? You'd have thought the poor little animal was a banshee in disguise. But don't take that the wrong way. I'm glad you're looking after her; I know you are, because otherwise you wouldn't stay this close to her. Anyone who knows her knows she needs some seeing to, much more often than she shows. But don't let me go on lecturing you. You're growing up, Harry, and all the amazing things you'll do are drawing closer." Harry didn't like this part. He didn't like to think that he was a miracle-worker in training, or that his future was written in the stars and waiting for him. Professor Trelawney was proof positive that that belief never got you anywhere; on the contrary, it was extremely counterproductive.  
  
Suddenly he realized that the room had gone clear again. He padded around on the floor for his glasses, which had flown off his face sometime in the middle of his 'flight.' He found them and groaned in annoyance when his finger slipped right through the frame. "Oculis reparo," he muttered softly, and he quickly moved his finger when he felt new glass creeping out of the edges of the frame. He put them back on and looked wildly around him. He blinked, unable to register his surroundings. For some reason, he was seeing Professor Dumbledore crouched on the floor, blood streaking his robes, trying to revive Professor McGonagall, who was sprawled on the dusty floor. Harry cried out and quickly crawled over to them. He reached forlornly for her wrist and collapsed in relief and exhaustion when he felt a steady pulse throbbing beneath the skin. The spell made everything black- and-white; there was only alive or dead, nothing in between. If she was alive, that meant he had done it. Or had he? His eyes fixed on the pools of red on Dumbledore's robes. Somehow he didn't think it was hers.  
  
"Yes, she's alive, Harry, but why she is so is a mystery to me. What made you think it was a good idea to simply have a go like that?"  
  
"I didn't..... I didn't want to. But she said....."  
  
"Ah. Yes. I can imagine. But....." His voice trailed off as he clutched his side in pain.  
  
"Professor! That's your blood, isn't it? Are you all right?"  
  
"That is not the issue right now, Harry," he replied through gritted teeth. "We must wake her. We cannot even risk a trip to the Hospital Wing until she is conscious. Help me."  
  
They worked in silence for long minutes, casting "Enervate" time after time, even shaking her once in a while, and eventually her eyes flew open and she began to cough. They turned her over quickly, helping her breathe, until she relaxed and looked at them dazedly. "What happened?" she managed to whisper.  
  
"We're alive," Harry answered happily. "But we need to get to the Hospital Wing. Come on." The two of them managed to balance her between them, and they carried her to the fireplace. A spray of Floo Powder had them spiraling into the Hospital Wing, amazingly still upright. They watched as Madam Pomfrey came rushing over, pulling them all over to a bed and lifting Professor McGonagall onto it.  
  
"What on earth have you three been doing?" she whined breathlessly. "Honestly..... she's half dead, you, boy, are a mess, and Headmaster..... you're covered in blood!" she screeched.  
  
"I'll explain later, Poppy," interrupted Dumbledore in the sort of tired voice that ends a conversation without argument. "Just help her."  
  
Madam Pomfrey nodded solemnly and got back to work. Harry sat down on the next bed, and they waited in silence while the shadows deepened over the canopies. 


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Sorry to keep you waiting for so long, but it's finals time, and I've barely got time to sleep, let alone write fanfic. So this chapter is a little shorter and a little less worked-over than the others, but I thought you'd rather have something little than nothing at all.  
  
Notes to reviewers:  
  
Jedi Amoira: Glad you're enjoying it.  
  
Huffy: Thank you muchly! I don't really know how to answer all your questions, but it's not over yet. Although maybe this will continue in a separate story. I don't really know. I probably can't write much fanfiction at home because my family thinks it's a total waste of time.  
  
Alchemine: Wow, thanks for that terrific review. And thank you for the compliment to my poetry :) Now, where's Chapter 8 of Shadowchasers?  
  
Myztrice: All your questions are answered in this chapter.  
  
VoyICJ: There are new questions every chapter because that's how a story stays interesting. If the reader is only sucking it up, but not asking any questions, they inevitably realize they have better stuff to do and stop reading. I don't know how many chapters there will be; this seems to be the last in this story, but maybe I will write a sequel. Or maybe I'll just continue here. I don't know at this point.  
  
Ozma: Yay! Thank you. I'm so glad I'm getting well known in the world of fanfic, or at least more so.  
  
HPluvva: Just read on for answers to your questions. He concentrated on Sirius' letters because what he needed was a link to real life, and that *was* 'concentrating on what he was doing.'  
  
The anonymous reviewer: Yes, BLOOD! Muhahahahaha..... No, seriously, thank you for reviewing. I tried to update rather quickly, but other stuff got in the way.  
  
Carmilla: Thanks. 'Angst-whore' is my new favorite phrase :)  
  
Child-of-the-Dawn: 'Ask and you shall receive.' Here's the continuation.  
  
Whisper: Glad you weren't depressed. Sorry it took so long to update. Yes, I wrote the words of the spell, in about 3 minutes, to be exact, when I came to that juncture of the story.  
  
Gryphix: Yes, there is romance. Surprised, actually, that you couldn't tell from the earlier chapters. But this isn't mush or smut, it's as close to real life, I flatter myself, as Harry Potter could ever get, and the romance comes slowly. In fact, I'm not quite sure what to do next, but I'll think of something.  
  
Bryanna Dumbledore: Thank you! No worries.  
  
Redwoman06: Thank you. But now you're making me feel guilty; I've sort of slacked off on being a 'regular poster.'  
  
geetha: Thank you very much. Yes, I saw the movie, and it was very good. It was a vast improvement on the last one, and I enjoyed it very much, especially Ron.  
  
Skara Brae: Lol. Thank you for coming back!  
  
Nexus: Thank you. I do my best :)  
  
Freelancer: Thank you for commenting on the 'sock' remark! Personally, I cracked myself up repeatedly when I wrote that, but I was disappointed when no one seemed to mention it. Oh well, maybe I'm the only one who finds me funny. Sorry that you find the story hard to follow; this chapter hopefully won't be.  
  
And AWAAYYY we go.....  
  
  
  
Minerva struggled to keep consciousness from returning. She was so comfortable; everything was pillow-light and carefree. But something was squeezing her hand. "Stop it," she murmured sleepily. "Professor, come on, wake up," a voice was saying urgently. "Asleep," she protested. But it was no good. Rays of light were stabbing into her vision, and she groaned as her eyes opened. "Ohhh....." Her head hurt. What was going on? "Harry?"  
  
"Yes, we made it," he said. "Do you remember?"  
  
"Yes. How long have I been here?"  
  
"Two days," Harry said softly. "I've come to see you all I could between classes and Snape asking me what I'm doing sneaking around all the corridors." He grinned briefly. "What else do you remember?"  
  
"Everything was spinning, and I couldn't hold on. I didn't want to let go, but I couldn't hold on....."  
  
"It's all right," Harry whispered. "Dumbledore told me the spell worked. You're not going to die."  
  
After several tries, she managed to sit up and look at him. "I'm not?"  
  
"No."  
  
She lifted a shaky hand and rested it against his cheek, which was showing the beginnings of a colorful bruise. "You did it, Harry," she said wonderingly.  
  
He scooted closer to the bed and dropped his head tiredly onto her shoulder. "It doesn't seem quite real, somehow," he whispered painfully. "I can't see my way clear through the spell. It feels like I set things in motion, stood back and crossed my fingers."  
  
"Certainly looks that way," remarked Madam Pomfrey in a very cross voice, pushing up to them and forcing a potion down Professor McGonagall's throat. "Healing spells leave you as strong as ever you were. Whatever saved her, it was very last minute."  
  
"Not quite right, actually," came another voice from over Madam Pomfrey's left shoulder.  
  
"Headmaster!" she squealed. "I must protest against these constant, spontaneous interruptions! My patient needs her rest!"  
  
"I only ask for five minutes," he said quietly, but his tone was so firm that there was no answer from the nurse, and she walked off to her office extremely annoyed.  
  
Dumbledore leisurely settled himself on the bed at Professor McGonagall's feet, and gingerly arranging his robes, said solemnly: "I think both of you should be a good deal more careful in future with such ancient and powerful magic." Minerva felt herself growing very pale. They both waited silently. "Both of you very nearly died," he continued, and the lines of exhaustion in his face gleamed dully in the candlelight. They watched his face, waiting for more. "You were very lucky." He seemed reluctant to begin, but Harry was growing impatient.  
  
"You were there when it finished," he said. "How did you know?"  
  
"How could I not?" was the cryptic answer. "I can only wonder why you decided to go ahead without me." Neither of them had the answer to this, but Dumbledore didn't seem to expect one. "I arrived to find not only the office, but also the spell, in complete chaos," he scolded. He turned his attention to Professor McGonagall, whose eyes had never left him since he had walked through the door. "I saw at a glance that your life had been weighed very carefully, Minerva," he said softly, "and it had only just been spared, by the grace of the most basic magic that lives in our blood and gives us our powers. Even this might not have sufficed, had it not been for the plain force of Harry's will. But you were too weak then to keep this power between you, and you might have died anyway, if I had let the spell run its course."  
  
Harry saw that Professor McGonagall understood, and the horror of the truth had paralyzed her. He spoke up. "You broke it?" he gasped. "But why....."  
  
"There were two lives under the rule of judgment," Dumbledore said sharply. His voice dropped and came out with a slight quiver: "Only one was saved." He gravely let this sink in for a minute, then said: "It became extremely urgent that I do something."  
  
The silence was reaching down over them, an ominous, stifling blanket of truth. "I've been so selfish," Minerva whispered, beginning to tremble and wrapping both arms securely around Harry's waist.  
  
Harry also had gone very white. "Not your fault," he stammered. "I knew I should have found a way to make sure I'd survive."  
  
"That's the trouble, Harry," Dumbledore said sadly. "There was no certainty. There never could have been. But if there was one thing I was absolutely unwilling to risk at that point, it was you. You see, Minerva," and there was a touch of exasperation in his voice now, "what happens when we value ourselves at too low a cost. The greatest possession one ever finds is the comfort in one's own soul. Without ourselves, we are nothing, and if we disregard our own lives, we also ignore other people's claims and feelings in relation to our worth." The words 'It's not her fault, leave her alone!' had just formed in Harry's mind when Dumbledore stood up, walked to the head of the bed and leaned over, speaking so quietly that Harry could not hear, as close as he was. "Care for yourself, Minerva, and you may be able to care enough for others to find some happiness. Look at him," he continued hastily, and she turned her head to meet Harry's eyes. "He is worth it, don't you think?" She nodded, unable to keep the tears down, and turned back to find an overpowering expression on Albus' face.  
  
"It was for me, wasn't it?" she whispered. He flinched slightly as her hand reached for his injured wrist, but he didn't look away. "As special as he is..... it was for *me*."  
  
"Everything always is," he muttered, almost to himself, but she caught the words and felt the truth of them. More tears ran then, and with only the quick words "forgive me" she bent down and kissed his lips.  
  
Harry's voice broke the communion, and a smile softened the impatience of his tone. "You took my place in the spell's fabric. What did that do, exactly?" The scene he was witnessing was not for his eyes; as ecstatic as he was, he felt like nothing so much as an intruder, and he was filled with a desperate wish to change the subject. He was determined to find out precisely how narrow his escape had been. Dumbledore's blood leaking unchecked over the floorboards was not an image he wanted to remain in his mind, and it seemed that the only way to banish it was to explain it fully.  
  
"I don't mind saying, Harry, that I was hard put to it to hold out. The spell was punishing me for interfering; it was very angry. The blood you saw was its payment." The shadow of returning pain filled Dumbledore's eyes as he said these words, but it could not fully quench the new spark that glowed merrily in their depths. "Luckily, as it focused on each of us in turn, we had already regained too much strength. It gave me a final shove and dissipated. As you know, we were all thrown to the floor, and you and I brought Professor McGonagall to the Hospital Wing."  
  
Harry pondered this in silence for a minute, then asked the only remaining question: "Is it over?"  
  
"One of us is in great danger," Dumbledore answered vaguely. "The spell was not brought to completion, so it still hovers, waiting for a chance to strike. For the moment, however, we are all safe. You may see your friends in the morning, Harry," he chuckled, seeing the question forming in Harry's eyes. "For tonight, I think....." Here he paused, taking in their weary, contented faces. "Tonight we belong to each other." 


	12. Part 2, Chapter 1

A/N: First of all, I have to say, I am SO SO SO sorry for taking so bloody long. I just got lazy last semester and stuck to LOTR fanfic. Well, here it is, a sort of sequel. I'm posting it under the same story name for two reasons: 1) Because I can't think of another story title for what is essentially the same one and 2) Because maybe my readers will come back faster if they see a familiar title/summary. Thank you for reading! Child-of-the-Dawn: You asked if I could turn on my Author Alert. I'm sorry to say I can't; I'm not a paying customer :)  
  
Ok, awaaaayyy we go...  
  
Harry sat in the Gryffindor common room, staring out at the frosty night encroaching on the castle, his Transfiguration textbook lying forgotten on his lap. He was tired and felt as if he would roll headfirst and unconscious onto the floor if he studied any longer. Ever since that horrible day in Professor McGonagall's office, he had started to become exhausted by the slightest task. Fights with Ron, and even Hermione, were a daily occurrence, as well as playing the role of mediator between the two of them. He shrank from actually approaching the headmaster in his office, and he wanted to give his friends some time to themselves. That was one thing that he could still smile about. He loved Transfiguration lessons now; it was worth the stern comments and the hand of iron just to be the only one to see when the mask slipped. It didn't happen often. But Dean and Seamus had become the Fred and George of the fifth year, and once in a while Harry would turn, laughing, back to the front of the class to find Professor McGonagall's eyes on him, an odd, tender spark burning somewhere beneath the glitter of steel in their depths. But in the afternoons he crept away silently to his lessons, and the nights... the nights were terrifying.  
  
He would wake in the earliest hours of the morning, sweating and trembling, surfacing slowly from the gluttonous depths of yet another nightmare. He never knew what they were about, but his scar burned like fire and he barely escaped crying out. Usually some sound escaped, however, for the almost nightly ritual never varied. Sometime after he had shaken himself awake came Ron's sleepy voice from the next bed: "That you, Harry?" He would sigh and answer: "Yeah, just me. Go back to sleep, Ron." "Ok," Ron would mumble in return. "If you're all right." "Yes, fine, Ron." "Ok. Night, Harry." "Goodnight." Harry would usually lie awake until dawn, when rays of sunshine poured into the room and kept him from falling back asleep. He was more lonely in those silent hours than he ever had been in his life. Even at Privet Drive, Uncle Vernon's wall-crumbling snores had never left him so alone at night.  
  
His tea-time chats with Professor McGonagall were almost a distant memory. He was unreasonably hurt that she supposedly had not noticed the rarity with which he visited, and he both resented and desperately missed her. Unbeknownst to him, she also missed the formerly so frequent sight of the frank green eyes behind their wire frames peering around her door, but fondly assumed he had decided to study harder for the O.W.L.s or devote more time to Quidditch practice, a habit he had sorely missed during his constant search in the library for her cure only weeks ago. Harry wished people wouldn't assume so much. Ron assumed that Harry could take care of himself, and Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore evidently thought the same. Hermione assumed he and Ron were having problems, which they were, but that wasn't nearly the half of it, Harry remarked viciously to himself. Ron kept bugging him about asking out Cho Chang, and he kept telling Ron to bloody well mind his own business. Ron then always called their friendship into question: "Friends don't keep secrets from each other, Harry."  
  
It was evidently Ron's mantra. He literally told Harry everything, from his latest grudge against Hermione to his hopes for the Gryffindor Quidditch team (Ron had made Keeper, much to the delight of all the Weasley clan, especially Charlie: "Way to keep the Weasley torch burning, Ronnie- kins!") to his grievances with Snape's assignment of Potions essays the size of the Bayeux tapestry. Harry had raised his eyebrows slightly at the artistic allusion; apparently Hermione was beginning to rub off on Ron. Which brought him to another large, offending issue: Ron *and* Hermione. Harry was sure it was only a matter of time. He wasn't jealous... exactly. He just wanted the Trio to be a trio, not a duo plus Harry. If there were going to be any duos around, he wanted to be part of one, not left out in the cold like he was now. But Ron would have Hermione, if he didn't make some hideous blunder and alienate her forever, and Professor McGonagall would have - did have - Dumbledore, and he would have - Voldemort. Yes, he was meant for something else, something more important. Hadn't Sirius written it to him, a hundred times if he'd written it once? Harry wished someone else could be the Boy Who Lived; maybe then he could have someone be the other part of his destiny who wasn't a sadistic madman set on ending his life. Harry blinked himself back from these thoughts, quickly wiping his eyes before anyone saw.  
  
Someone - or something - *had* seen, however, having been on the lookout for the dark-haired boy for the last twenty minutes. Pigwidgeon, having left the Owlery for his nightly flit around the castle, had found a commission. A letter to deliver, at this time of night! He had nearly hooted with joy, before he remembered himself. Gentlemanly owls didn't hoot, he recalled. They sat still, fluffed importantly and scowled cross- eyed at the floor. Pigwidgeon thought being a polite owl looked very boring. But the woman hadn't seemed to mind, although she had grabbed his leg *very* hard when she tied the letter on. Pigwidgeon, widely known as not quite the brightest crayon in the box, had had trouble sifting through the occupants of the castle in his search for this boy. But now he sailed ecstatically across the room and landed with a well-timed somersault in Harry's lap. Harry looked down and stared at Pigwidgeon. The tiny owl remembered that staring was very rude, just like hooting. With an air of studied dignity, he held out his left foot, to which a letter addressed in green ink was attached. Harry took it, absently patting the little creature on the head, who by this time was absorbed in the bewildering and fairly futile task of trying to read Harry's Transfiguration textbook upside-down.  
  
Harry opened the letter and recognized the beautiful script right away. He read the letter eagerly, which ran as follows:  
  
~ Dearest Harry,  
  
I hope this note reaches you. The owl I found seems very... zealous, but I fear that he may have taken leave of his senses. ~  
  
Harry grinned at that and looked down at Pigwidgeon, who was now endeavoring to stand on his head in order to get a better view of the whole page. Harry rolled his eyes and returned to the letter.  
  
~ If you are not otherwise engaged tonight, I would like to treat you to a cup of hot chocolate. I know you are anxious to improve your studies, but believe me when I say that James' son could not do otherwise than excel at Transfiguration. Or am I wrong, my boy, in supposing that that book is in your hands at this very moment? Take a break, Harry- come and see me.  
  
Always,  
Minerva McGonagall ~  
  
She thought he had been studying. If only. His concentration had entirely left him for the evening, leaving his mind free to dwell on things he didn't want to dwell on. Yes, he would go, if for no other reason than the fact that he missed her terribly. And she was right; he needed a break. "Thanks, Pig," he said gratefully, tickling him under the chin, if the tubby little owl could be said to possess one. Pig hooted happily, then looked mortified as he remembered his manners, and assembling his little wings with great ceremony, he took off, thinking it a very good thing that Hedwig had not seen his behavior. He would have gotten a severe ticking- off and perhaps even a delivery ban. He shuddered and returned quietly to his perch, while Harry climbed quietly out of the portrait-hole and headed for Professor McGonagall's rooms. 


	13. Part 2, Chapter 2

A/N: Wow, I'm really sorry this took so long. As always, I can't really promise when the next update will come; I don't write fanfiction regularly or in advance. One thing before this chapter starts: this story is now AU, since Order of the Phoenix came out after I had started Part 2, and this is supposed to be Harry's fifth year. Sorry, should have made it sixth :) It might, however, have overtones of the fifth book, since it's been bouncing around in my head ever since I read it.  
  
The knock was stiff and polite, two short raps on the oak—Minerva did not miss the significance, and frowned. Harry always knocked three times for luck; it was a Muggle thing he had tried to explain many times, but she never quite got the point. Muggles were very taken with it, apparently; they even wrote songs with names like "Knock On Wood" and "Knock Three Times." Harry must be very distracted by something to have forgotten.  
  
"Come in, Harry," she called, and the creak of the door was followed by the bespectacled eyes and wiry frame of a fifteen-year-old boy. He closed the door, then started in surprise as his eyes found her.  
  
"You're...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up, I just...I'll go," he stuttered and turned for the door.  
  
"Harry, please, I invited you," she interrupted quickly. "I had simply assumed you weren't coming and was about to retire," she explained. His start of surprise had been in response to her state of dress; she had abandoned her emerald robes for a nightgown of the same shade, and her dark hair was swinging freely down her back. He felt a sort of fierce pride, looking at her; she had aged very gracefully, it seemed, and he couldn't imagine that she'd been any less beautiful when she was his mother's age. He had to admit that it gave him solace to compare her with Lily Potter; it made the distance between himself and his dead mother seem so small. "Were you studying for your O.W.L.s?" she asked, jolting him back to the present and making him jump.  
  
"No," he said shortly, then, at her raised eyebrow, he replied: "I guess I was waiting for your letter."  
  
She gestured to one of the scarlet armchairs by the fire, and when they were both seated, said softly: "Please don't stand on ceremony with me, Harry. I'm always glad to see you."  
  
"I wasn't, that isn't why!" he replied angrily. "Maybe I needed to wait; to...straighten things out in my head," he finished lamely. He knew what he wanted to say: I needed to feel wanted, not to have to take it for granted. But he couldn't say that to her, not to anyone.  
  
"Tell me," she whispered gently. He shifted uneasily in the cushiony armchair.  
  
"You can't know what it's like," he began sadly. "Everyone minding their own business around you...except Ron, when he should be," he amended with a wry smile. She smiled in return and waited expectantly. "You know him. He thinks he's entitled to know everything." He blushed faintly, remembering one such instance not long ago that involved his Transfiguration professor and, of all things, her love life.  
  
"I believe," she answered slyly, "that this might be termed an exceedingly well-documented case of the pot calling the kettle black." Harry blushed more heavily, staring determinedly at the fire.  
  
"But I don't pry into these sorts of things," he protested. "I only want to know so I can be useful and help when I need to, but Ron...he's turning into an awful gossip," he finished hotly. Minerva managed with difficulty to suppress a smile.  
  
"Would this have anything to do with a very attractive Ravenclaw Seeker?" she asked knowingly. Harry's head whipped around to find a disturbingly triumphant look on her face.  
  
"How...?"  
  
"I've been keeping an extra eye out for you, Harry," she said simply. "It's not difficult to spot a change in your mood when I'm checking every ten minutes to see if you need anything," she admitted sheepishly. Harry looked away, embarrassed. This brought him back to the beginning again. They were both silent for several long minutes, staring sightlessly into the dancing flames as they glinted off Minerva's hair and Harry's glasses. "You aren't happy, are you?" she said suddenly. Harry saw no point in trying to deny it. She was just as good as the headmaster at seeing through lies. He shook his head mutely. "What can I do?"  
  
"Nothing," he said flatly. "Just be happy with him, I'll be fine," he added without thinking. He mentally smacked himself as he realized what he had just said. Silence reigned again, and a warm hand grasped his in the deepening twilight.  
  
"He isn't everything to me, you know," she said seriously, lifting his chin with her free hand so that he had no choice but to look at her. "Real, lasting love isn't like that. It doesn't possess your entire heart every minute of every day. It adds to the joys, detracts from the pain, and most of all, is always there to rest your worries on. It leaves room in your life for everything else that you want; it gives you your freedom. And part of my freedom is caring for you, Harry. My love for Albus doesn't lessen mine for you. Never assume you aren't welcome, and I'm sure Albus agrees with me. He loves you too, Harry, more than you can imagine; he always has." Harry was deeply touched by this speech but, boylike, he wouldn't show it. In spite of all the scowling he could muster, however, the traitorous tears of despair leapt to his eyes.  
  
"It all boils down to one thing, though," he said firmly, ignoring her fingertips wiping away the damp patches on his cheeks. "I've got to stand alone. When...he comes for me...I'll be on my own. I am on my own. And whatever anyone feels for me can't ever change that."  
  
"It already has, Harry," she contradicted gently. "Long ago. Your mother's sacrifice has saved your life many times. Love kept you alive, and it fights with you always. Perhaps none of us may physically stand at your side at the end, but you take us with you wherever you go. Your quick mind and quicker instincts, your courage, your compassion...everything you are has grown and flourished here, under this roof, where you are loved."  
  
"You make it sound so easy," he muttered. "And so...so real. I wish—"  
  
"No, you don't," she slipped in deftly. "Don't say it. You could only ever be yourself."  
  
"But you've changed. Everyone has changed."  
  
"We've all grown, Harry," she laughed. "And so have you. Changing is quite different."  
  
"What about Ron and Hermione?" he whispered stubbornly. She allowed a flicker of sadness to enter her eyes—she could see very well what he was feeling.  
  
"They'll always need you," she said quietly. "No matter how things change, that won't."  
  
Harry was silent for several minutes, tracing the grain of the oak chair- arm and letting his mind absorb all she had said. He wasn't, wouldn't be alone, not really. The thought was a refreshing spray of water to his burning soul. Speaking of which, he thought slyly. He turned his head to look at her, catching only her profile. She was studying something just above the mantelpiece, giving him as much privacy as she could. She looked so young for one so wise. What had she seen? He somehow knew there was more than just their shared experience this year. She had a quality of natural sagacity; nothing about her was impetuous or small. The only thing quick to burn in her was anger, but it usually manifested itself in the coolest, most cutting ways, only seldom igniting into bursts of temper. She served her namesake well—the avenging goddess, a mixture of calm deliberation and raging war-blood. It suddenly occurred to Harry that starting at the beginning might be a good idea. How had she and Dumbledore first met? He had a feeling that would lead him to the answer. But he had been about to ask her something else, something about refreshment? And then he remembered her note.  
  
"Professor?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"You invited me here for hot chocolate. Are you going to keep your promise?" She laughed loudly and reached out to cup his chin between thumb and forefinger.  
  
"So you came for chocolate, did you? Truly, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach." Harry snorted with laughter, then sighed. He felt better, just being here with her. 


	14. Part 2, Chapter 3

A/N: Again, sorry for the delay. I know this makes me lose readers, but I really don't have the ideas and the opportunity to write fanfiction all that often. Other note: I've decided to bring this story somewhat into the line of Order of the Phoenix. Not really with the events, just with what we learn about Harry's past- and with the way that Harry feels towards Dumbledore.

The peace that had flooded the room when the hot chocolate hit Harry's stomach fled suddenly as the door flew open, admitting the headmaster and slamming shut behind him. Both Minerva and Harry jumped in their seats, and only Dumbledore's quick wandwork saved Minerva's carpet from an unpleasant encounter with the remains of her cocoa. "Albus, what on earth...?"

"Sorry, Minerva," he said contritely. "I didn't mean to burst in on you; in fact, I've often been rather severe with Severus about his similar entrances into my study. But something... disturbing... has happened, and I need your help. Now."

"Of course, I'll come straight away." She stood quickly, pulling her robes from a closet and slinging them on over her nightgown.

"What's happened?" Harry wanted to know.

"An emergency meeting of the Order has been called," Dumbledore intoned gravely. "I'm sorry, Harry, I can't tell you more until a counteraction has been implemented and we know for certain that secrecy is no longer vital."

"But..."

"You should go to bed, Harry. If possible, I shall speak with you tomorrow. Come, Minerva."

"Professor..."

"Now." Dumbledore looked annoyed, as if he were speaking to someone slightly dense for whom he had to keep repeating himself.

Harry stood his ground, glaring furiously at the headmaster, willing himself to cool down. He didn't want to feel hurt, he didn't want to feel angry; he didn't want things to be like this. He didn't want to be protected or treated like a child. _Then don't act like one, _said his inner voice. 'Oh, shut up,' he told it. He felt the tears burning their way up his throat, and he swallowed frantically. "Fine. Just let me know when you need someone for Voldemort to point his wand at." His inner voice was having a field day, calling him all sorts of things (juvenile and its synonyms being pretty high up on the list), but he ignored the voice and the room's other occupants and walked out, closing the door softly behind him to salvage what was left of his dignity.

Silence reigned inside for a few moments, and then Minerva spoke. "Oh, Albus. _Really._"

"What..."

"Oh, how _can _you be so obtuse? _I've_ spent half the night trying to convince him that he's wanted, and more importantly, needed, that I have plenty of room in my life for both of you, and it's all wasted on him now because _you_ burst in here and treated him as if he were three years old."

Albus bristled, but his scowl held traces of guilt. "He knows very well that he is not a member of the Order. He receives information on a need-to-know basis, and that is only because, as he so eloquently pointed out, he is the one at whom Voldemort wishes to point his wand."

"Albus Dumbledore, for such a wise man you can be a frightful idiot sometimes. Harry wasn't truly asking about the appearances of Death Eaters or Voldemort's next move."

"I see. Please, translate for me; what is it that he wanted?"

"If you don't know, I'm certainly not going to tell you."

"Ah. Very useful, I must say."

"Oh, I give up. Just make sure that you _do _speak with him tomorrow. Now, Albus, perhaps we should discuss just what you came to talk to me about."

"Very well. The hiatus is over. Voldemort has begun his campaign. There were four separate Death Eater strikes last night, all of them leaving only corpses and the Dark Mark in their wakes. And..."

Minerva dreaded his next words. "And?"

"One of them was just outside London. The other three were..." He paused for breath. "The other three were increasingly close to Hogwarts."

Minerva sank back into the armchair. "It's a warning," she whispered. "He's almost ready. He wants to show us that he can strike anytime, anywhere. What are we going to do?"

"Fight," said Albus calmly, moving to grasp her shaking hand in his. "I believe the favored Muggle expression is: 'Damn the torpedoes.'"

Minerva smiled grimly. "Yes, damn them; we haven't time for torpedoes. We'd better go and meet the others. You're very lucky, Albus, that they won't dare to start without you. It's the only reason that you can maintain any semblance of punctuality."

"Not only a semblance, my dear. I am never late."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harry climbed very slowly into bed. Everything ached, especially his chest. He had listened outside Minerva's door until it was obvious they were heading right towards it, and then he had turned and sprinted all the way back to Gryffindor Tower. It was happening, then. Voldemort was coming for him, and he was climbing into bed while an emergency Order meeting was in session to decide what to do about it. 'This is ridiculous,' he thought. 'They're worried about their world, their futures, their lives. But this is about me. It has been for 15 years. The minute that Professor Trelawney opened her mouth to speak in the Hog's Head, this became _my _life. _My _future. Wait a second...'

Harry sat straight up in bed, the wheels turning in his brain. Voldemort had chosen him to be the subject of the prophecy. Voldemort wasn't as obsessed with gaining power as he was with killing Harry. He would do anything to get his hands on Harry: in a second, without even thinking it through, not caring that it might be to his disadvantage... Voldemort had a weakness. Everyone had been going at this backwards. Harry was the liability, Harry was the target; but what if the target became bait, bait that was too hot to handle? Harry jumped out of bed, through the portrait hole (ignoring the Fat Lady's disgusted inquiries as to whether he was in or out) and down the hall. He had to follow them somehow. Somehow, he had to get to that meeting.


	15. Part 2, Chapter 4

A/N: I won't even bother with an apology for the infrequent updates anymore; it's getting kind of redundant, and kind of ridiculous (last update was almost 2 years ago!). But I hope you don't give up my story in disgust :) Here's a good long chapter, though, as a peace offering. Also: I'm assuming in this chapter that all the stuff of the summer before 5th year has already happened, with Harry going to Grimmauld Place, learning about the Order, etc. I'm also assuming, in case I didn't make this clear before, that Dumbledore has already told Harry (and Minerva) about the prophecy. It's just easier that way.

Ok, on with the story...

Harry peeked carefully around the doorframe of the Quidditch supply shed. Wherever the two professors were headed, they were flying. And they apparently kept their brooms with the school equipment. Harry shook his head in wonderment; he wouldn't let his Firebolt out of Gryffindor Tower for all the candy in Honeydukes'. But right now, this was his advantage; it would make following them much easier. He slipped his invisibility cloak out of his pocket and threw it on, waiting until the professors had taken off before grabbing one of the brooms and zooming up into the night sky. The broom was a joke compared to his Firebolt, but it served the purpose; neither broom ahead seemed to be much for speed, either. 'For goodness' sake,' Harry thought, rolling his eyes. 'They run the flipping place; you'd think they could afford decent brooms.' 'They don't spend fortunes on status symbols; they're adults,' his inner voice chuckled. 'Get a GRIP,' he chided himself. 'There's no time for this insanity.' But the night air seemed to fill his head with lighter thoughts than might have been useful to him, such as a firmer plan to trap Voldemort than painting a bull's-eye on his chest and yelling, "come and get me," or more immediately, what Dumbledore and McGonagall would say. This was almost enough to make him turn back...almost. Dumbledore had sent him to bed like a naughty child. And McGonagall had left him alone, made him feel unwanted, just because she wanted to give him time to study. Anger helped--he felt justified in this extreme course of action, and he wouldn't let them argue him down this time. He followed their descent and landed a good distance behind them; he had always had a suspicion that Dumbledore could see through his invisibility cloak.

The two professors stopped just outside of Hogsmeade. They were obviously very good at not being noticed, and if Harry had not had his invisibility cloak, he would have been a fool to try and follow. As it was, he could follow them in what would have been plain sight, as long as he didn't bump into anyone. He trailed them to a small hut off the main road, and when they went inside, he secured his cloak around him and squatted down outside the window. He was relieved to discover that he could hear perfectly; apparently, whatever wards the Order had put up in securing the hut did not view him as hostile—for which he was damned grateful, he thought emphatically. The last thing he needed now was to end up suspended by his feet from the awning, or something, with the whole Order standing there staring at him and wondering what the hell he used for brains.

Harry perked up his ears when he heard Dumbledore's voice calling the meeting to order. He eventually let them down again, though; there was a roll call, then a list of the victims of the raids, then a trajectory of Voldemort's path towards Hogwarts. Harry rolled his eyes impatiently. 'Voldemort could slaughter half of Britain, fill the Parliament with Death Eaters and elect himself Prime Minister in the time it takes them to state the obvious,' Harry sighed to himself. His legs and rear end were numb and very cold by the time anything halfway interesting happened. Snape spoke. Harry listened intently as Snape proposed his plan for permanently infiltrating the Death Eater circle. He planned to convince the Dark Lord that Dumbledore had found him out and it was no longer safe for him (or—if he actually wanted to convince Voldemort—useful to the Dark Lord's purposes) to stay at Hogwarts. Harry was both grudgingly admiring the man's bravery and mentally thrashing him for his lack of foresight. Dumbledore quickly brought up Harry's point, though.

"Severus, I fear that I must point out the obvious. You will not be allowed to retire and bask in the glory of the Dark Lord. If you are no longer useful to him as a spy, he will require you to do his other, less appealing work, or he will make short work of _you_. You will, in effect, no matter where your loyalties lie, be a practicing Death Eater again, with no way of relaying to us any information you may happen to come across about Voldemort's intentions. It is a betrayal of our cause, unless you forfeit your life to him; he will force you to kill, to torture, and you will be no less guilty of these crimes than he, because you will have voluntarily given up any choice you now have in the matter. Consider that before you choose that course of action. You are correct, however, in assuming that the war has progressed beyond the stage of playing both sides. You can no longer be a credible double agent. If you are resolved to answer Voldemort's call, then you have only one option of serving the Order: undermine the workings of the other side, from the _in_side. You will be alone; none of us will be able to help you, or even to come to your aid, if Voldemort should discover you. If you can accept that you will take lives again, innocent lives, on Tom Riddle's orders, then you may certainly make that choice. If fate is so inclined, we may meet again, in the end. But not before. The choice is yours, but remember: if you choose to stay and fight with us, we will stand with you. Any personal disagreements, arguments or grudges that still exist within this Order are to be forgotten, here and now. We stand together, in perfect allegiance, if not friendship, and we leave everything else behind us, where it belongs. Those are the terms as they now stand. What is your choice, Severus?"

Harry was impressed and awed, but not cowed. He recognized this moment for what it was: his cue. He pulled the cloak away from his body, burst through the door, ducked a Stunning Spell that some vigilant Auror, probably Moody, had fired at his forehead, and shouted: "He doesn't have to do it!"

Chaos erupted, or as much chaos as could be achieved within the dimensions of the tiny hut. Kingsley leapt up and slammed the door shut; Moody began shouting out warding spells until the roof looked ready to cave in under the huge weight of magical energy; Mrs. Weasley began bellowing at Harry at the top of her lungs; Tonks fell off her chair and spent the next minute or two untangling herself from the legs; Sirius shouted: "Harry! What the HELL!" Lupin's fists were clenched, and his mouth was hanging open. Snape looked ready to explode with anger. Harry risked a look at Minerva. She looked equally furious, but her expression also contained fear, as well as a touch of amused exasperation. Part of Harry's brain wondered idly how she did that. He didn't dare look at Dumbledore. Before anyone could shut him up, he began talking very fast.

"Look, I'm sorry, I know this is probably the stupidest thing I've ever done, but it's not a stunt, I promise. Sn—_Professor_ Snape doesn't have to do this. I don't know why I never thought of this before. I don't have to be the liability. You're all running around trying to fight Voldemort and protect me at the same time, but it's spreading your resources pretty thin, isn't it? Don't you see? I'm the one he wants. You can all try to mess with him until the cows come home" ('Cows?' Sirius murmured quizzically), "but he won't go for it; he's only after me. We can use this, use _him_. What would he do if he saw a chance to get to me? _Anything_, and that's his biggest weakness. You can set a trap for him; I won't question it or interfere or anything, I promise. But I can help you this way, and I can tell you that it's probably the only thing that will keep me out of your hair." He risked a sheepish glance at Dumbledore, who, unfortunately, still looked as if he might strangle Harry. "This isn't just another chance for me to be the hero," he said firmly, looking straight at Snape, who blinked in surprise before returning in full force to his patented scowl. "Believe me, I wish someone else could fight Voldemort for me. I don't know how many of you know about the prophecy, about him and me..." Harry's voice caught for a moment, and he waited for Minerva's comforting touch on his back before continuing. "Anyone else who tries to face him, to destroy him, is a sitting duck. It's him or me"—several exclamations greeted this statement, not the least of which was Sirius' vehement cursing—"and if you want it to be me, this is your best chance. Make the fight happen on your terms, not his, otherwise he will find a way to kill me when you're not prepared, and then everything will be finished." Harry waited, counting the knotholes in the far wall, wishing someone, even Snape, would say something. Finally, in a very small voice, it was Tonks who spoke.

"You'd better watch out for your job, Dumbledore," she whispered, giggling nervously. There was some scattered laughter, and then Sirius spoke up.

"Bloody fucking hell," he said slowly. He stood up, walking forward until he was right in front of Harry. "You can bet I'm on your side, kiddo," he said softly, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I have to tell you, though: I hate this plan."

Harry grinned appreciatively. "Thanks. Good to see you too, by the way." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a very crumpled letter. "I was going to send this to you tomorrow, but, well, here you go." Sirius laughed his loud, barking laugh and tousled Harry's hair, stuffing the letter into his shirt pocket with his other hand.

"Next time you can't find an owl to take your letters, Harry, maybe instead of tracking your professors to an Order meeting to deliver them in person, you could just _borrow someone else's_."

Everyone laughed, except Snape, who just looked disgusted. He opened his mouth to speak, and Harry tensed in horrible anticipation. "I have to say, Headmaster, that I _do_ like this plan. Very much." Harry was ecstatic. Snape liked his plan! Of course, it was definitely because this plan involved _Harry's_ mortal peril instead of Snape's, but who cared? It meant that Snape wouldn't be running off to spill Dumbledore's secrets or Harry's whereabouts to the Dark Lord, with or without the influence of Cruciatus. Minerva nodded slightly and winked at Harry, rubbing his back again briefly. She turned to the Headmaster.

"What do you think, Albus?" Harry realized with a horrible jolt that Dumbledore hadn't said a word since Harry's unexpected arrival. As he faced the old wizard, he got the shock of his life. Dumbledore looked truly, awfully afraid. And Harry realized that Dumbledore was the only other person in the room who had already thought of this plan, probably a long, long time ago. Harry was angry for a moment; why had the Headmaster wasted so much time diddling around with schemes to protect him? Why hadn't they gone after Voldemort like this before he became strong again, before more people, people just like James and Lily Potter, got in his way? But Harry knew the answer as soon as he asked the question. Because Dumbledore could never bring himself to ask that of a child, especially, Harry realized with a pang of gratitude, one that he was so unwilling to sacrifice. But it was time to stop protecting one person, a person who could end this, at the cost of so many other lives. Harry looked straight into Dumbledore's deep, blue eyes and gulped in a breath.

"It's time," he said gently. "It's time to end this. Ever since I was a year old, since that day he marked me, it's always been me or him. You must have known that, or you would have stopped me from going after the Stone in my first year, or going into the Chamber of Secrets. I refuse to believe you're as oblivious as you pretend to be," he teased, smiling as he remembered the time in the library when Minerva had given him precisely that piece of advice with regard to the sometime childlike Headmaster. Dumbledore gave him a little wink in return, and, encouraged, he continued. "You've given me as normal a life as I could have possibly had under the circumstances, and I'm grateful, I really am, in spite of being raised by the Dursleys. There's always been a price for being me, and that was part of it, that's all. But it's time to stop compensating for the prophecy and to start _listening to it_. Voldemort will kill until I stop him. Period. And since I'm still at school, and nowhere near ready for this, I'm asking you to help me. And I'm sorry if that puts you in the position of delivering me to him, but if this doesn't work..."—he cut off at the stricken look on Dumbledore's face—"then you're going to have much bigger problems than losing me," he finished rapidly.

The hut was silent for what seemed to Harry like days. He fidgeted under Minerva's and Sirius' hands. Finally Dumbledore spoke.

"You're right, Harry," he said simply. "You're not a child any longer, and I simply don't have the right to keep shielding you. But Harry"—Dumbledore stepped forward until he and Harry were standing eye to eye—"I'm going to remind you of something that I had occasion to remember today: knowing something is coming does not make its arrival any easier to bear. Don't try to face this alone, in any sense of the word. Promise me." Harry nodded briefly, choking back a whole knot of emotions, and Dumbledore took pity on him by adding: "For instance: next time you plan on tailing me to a secret meeting and scaring the living daylights out of a bunch of already excessively paranoid Aurors, **_let me know_**." Harry laughed, which made him cough and sniffle even more, and feeling very self-conscious, he relaxed against Minerva, who had pulled him as close as possible without giving him cause to be embarrassed for being hugged in front of the entire Order. Except for Snape, they were all like his family, anyway, and even Snape was looking unusually docile.

The meeting dispersed with plans to meet again in the morning in London, hopefully with the beginnings of a strategy. Harry returned to the castle with his professors; no one said very much until they landed. When they reached the front doors, Dumbledore put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "How do you feel, Harry?" he asked quietly.

Harry was uncomfortable at the question, but he knew that Dumbledore wanted an honest answer. "Encouraged, I think. Less like a hamster in a wheel. Very scared. And sort of embarrassed."

Dumbledore squeezed the shoulder he was holding and smiled slightly. "Harry, you've never had less reason to be embarrassed or self-conscious in your life, and I've never felt less like laughing at someone in mine. This is why the Sorting Hat placed you in Gryffindor. No matter what Professor Snape says, it is not a matter of taking foolish chances. It is the realization of what needs to be done, and the courage to do it, no matter the consequences. I wish James and Lily could have heard you," he whispered, half to himself. "They would be very proud, Harry."

The tears were very near now, the closest to the surface that they had been all evening. Harry swallowed as hard as he could. But he couldn't keep them out of his voice when he answered, "thank you."

When he had gone up ahead to the Gryffindor dormitory, Minerva turned to Albus. "You've got it," she said happily, kissing him affectionately on the cheek.

"Got what?" he asked, puzzled.

"What we were talking about earlier, when you interrupted Harry and me during our hot chocolate, and I told you that you needed to figure it out for yourself. What Harry wanted. To hear you say that you are proud of him. That he is important to you, and that he's needed. He's always known it," she said impatiently when he looked like he was going to say just that. "And he actually realized it tonight, back at the cottage. But he needed to hear it. From you."

Fire ignited in the depths of Dumbledore's eyes. "Because of the Dursleys. Because of how they treated him."

"Partly. That, and losing James and Lily. That's why he can't take love for granted. But I also believe he's been feeling neglected lately." That got Dumbledore's attention.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't speak about this to you without Harry's knowledge, Albus. It's something you should discuss with him. But I can tell you that both of us should take care to keep him from being alone so much. And I know there is a great deal else that he isn't telling me. Perhaps you could ask him if his scar hurts him very much; that might give us a clue. If I'm right, he's feeling more like the Boy Who Lived and less like Harry every day, and in light of this new offensive plan in which Harry plays the bait, the problem is compounded. Just...help me look after him, all right?" Dumbledore nodded, frowning with concern. Minerva reached out and smoothed a finger over the crease in his forehead. He smiled and raised her hand to kiss it, and Minerva stood up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear: "Let's save the worrying for tomorrow."


End file.
